Carol’s Column

Every mother deserves one

I THINK Mother's Day is a ruthless rip-off invented by a little pot-bellied man somewhere who one day woke up and found his bank balance in the red.

Rubbing his podgy little fingers together, he flashed his gold-filled toothy smile, looked heavenwards and thought to himself: "Aha, who shall I exploit today?"

The great commercial racket of Mother's Daydom was born.

And throughout the world, the plastic hearts, the red roses, the cards, the perfumes and the trinkets started flowing.

Meanwhile — back at the bank, so to speak, the little pot-bellied man giggled and chortled as he withdrew his millions, bought Krugerrands and fled to the Bahamas where he lived happily ever after.

So who needs to be brought breakfast in bed on a tray with a lacey cloth, a single rose in a cut-glass vase, fresh toast and an egg that hasn't stiffened with rigor mortis half an hour later?

Who needs those dainty little presents wrapped in pinks and golds? The casual diamond and sapphire pendant? The devastating silk Janet Reger nightie with the cutaway back? And the French perfume in the slender, elegant bottle with the gold-plated lid?

Me. That's who.

I shut my eyes and years of Mother's Days gone past flash wickedly before me.

In the first year of marriage my beloved spouse gave me an electric drill with no attachments.

I was bowled over by his thoughtfulness.

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The following Mother's Day produced an elaborately-wrapped rotary bit with a small drive spindle plus a chuck key. The stuff that dreams are made of.

Then came a grinding wheel, milling cutter and sanding disc.

I was the only mother in South Africa to have a fully-stocked tool kit in my dressingroom.

As the years progressed, so did my husband's imagination.

From the workshop graduated to useful appliances such as magnetic tin-openers and rotating lettuce shakers.

The arrival of the children improved things marginally. The various gifts were then accompanied by beautiful home-made cards covered in kisses and smudges.

Last year was the final straw.

While other mothers wallowed in orange juice and fresh scones, my family took me for a treat.

For weeks they'd planned a Mother's Day with a difference. There was much hushed giggling, whispering and chuckling.

I'd gone to bed happily, knowing my happy little family unit was intent on surprising me.

Thoughts of a special five-star lunch plus lots of delicious bubbly, at a luxurious hotel, flashed through my mind.

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Reality was different.

I was prodded awake at 4am, dragged from my warm bed, into the great cold, unwashed outdoors and taken trout fishing.

Which is the perfect way to spend Mother's Day — if you're a father.

Somehow things had gone badly wrong.

It was time to improve the quality of Mother's Days to come. My grandmother, herself a mother for many years, was a woman of wise words.

"Ask and you shall receive," she used to say.

One morning, while feeding the goldfish the new protein goldfish powder that guaranteed a bounce to the fin, I worked it all out.

I was obviously to blame for previous Mother's Days in my life.

Tin-openers and small-drive spindles meant one thing only. That was how my family saw me, a do-it-yourself mother, opener of tins and catcher of fish.

It's time for a change I thought to myself as I cleaned the spark plugs of my car to get it going.

This year, I'll start my campaign early.

When the dog choked on a piece of salami, I screamed. When the car broke down in the middle of the M1, I cried. When the drains got blocked, I phoned the plumber and when I saw a mouse in the kitchen, I fainted.

In short — I've become a typical mother.

I've dropped hints of silk, scent and silver throughout the house.

But has it really helped? Only time and next Sunday will tell.

This morning I overheard a discussion between my two youngest unmarried children.

Said Jamie, 9, to Nicky, 7.

"Let's phone Talia and get one of her monkeys for Mommy for Mother's Day."

"No silly, Daddy's already bought her a course of skydiving lessons as a special surprise."

Oh my God, skydiving?

"And Ralph's already got her a little turtle. He chose the one with the bite in the head."

A motheaten turtle?

"And Daddy says we're taking on a surprise picnic to a place she'll never guess in a hundred years."

Roll on Mother's Day — I just can't wait.

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