Carol’s Column

Mothers of the world unite

MOTHERS of the world unite for you have nothing but your pickled cucumbers, plastic-coated brown paper wrapping, orange-flavoured castor oil, your sanity and lift clubs to lose.

And if this sounds an exaggeration — it's not.

Only yesterday I heard of a mother, a perfectly normal, ordinary, well-balanced woman who came down to breakfast one morning — in the usual way — took one look at her youngest son dipping her daughter's plaits into the marmalade jar, her oldest son eating with his mouth open and her second daughter sulking.

She observed her husband lost behind the paper, the dog chewing her Persian carpet and the wilting floral centre-piece on the table, turned around and retraced her steps to the bedroom.

Where she packed a suitcase, her heated rollers and her cellulite massage glove, phoned for a taxi and left for the airport.

She bought a one-way ticket to Rome and the latest news is that she has become a belly dancer in a top nightspot.

She's the talk of the town and appeared in a chat show on local TV at prime viewing time.

When asked to comment on the fact that she'd abandoned her family and fled South Africa, she was reputed to remark that her life had been a living nightmare for the past 15 years and that if she ever had to cover another school book in brown paper again — she'd commit suicide.

Strong words those but there cannot be one mother reading this who has not felt the same.

Then there was the mother who had a nervous breakdown while spreading peanut butter on her kids' school sandwiches. She thought of the hundreds of kilometres of peanut butter she had spread over the past nine years.

And then worse, she thought of the hundreds of kilometres of peanut butter still to come and immediately went into a mental decline.

Not only do mothers perform the most amazing endurance feats, but they endanger their lives constantly.

Their driving prowess makes Grand Prix contestants look sick.

Have you ever watched a mother who's late for the ballet, judo, soccer, chess lift scheme, shooting two-wheeled round a razor sharp bend?

And they participate under the most difficult circumstances. I mean does Jody Scheckter have to fight a steering wheel with a tennis racket digging into his private parts, a squirted orange in his eye and six raucous voices singing: "She stepped into the water and got her ... wet!"

No, he doesn't.

Worse, does Alan Jones run out of petrol in the home stretch and find he can't afford to refuel because someone has pinched the petrol money for tuck shop?

Of course he doesn't.

And if he does, there's always Emerson Fittipaldi around to lend him a couple of bucks instead of a Putco bus driver hooting up your rear.

There is the occasional success story.

Like the mother who became so proficient at making vast batches of school sandwiches, that she decided to do it for money.

She opened a fast foods counter at her local shopping centre. Made a fortune and retired to the Bahamas six months later. Leaving behind her husband and six children to make their own sandwiches.

In the past two weeks 123 school books have been covered in this particular household.

Some by my elder children but most by me.

This morning, my gap-toothed seven-year-old gave me an ultimatum.

She handed me three books, two foolscap size and one A4 you understand, and said: "Miss Glover said I must have these books covered by today."

Then to make things worse, my 10-year old charmer of the knock-knees and unruly hair placed four books on my lap. "Ma," he said, "Mrs Hauptfleish says I have to cover these books immediately."

Mrs Glover and Mrs Hauptfleish — I have a message for you. Unfortunately I won't be able to cover those books. I have run out of brown paper. I used the last of the sticky tape to fix my drooping hem and anyway I've just booked a trip to Amazon Basin. They don't have schools or books there they say.

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