Carol’s Column

The banana loaf mother strikes back

“MA, why aren’t you having an affair?” asked my nine-year-old daughter of the plum cheeks and sea-urchin eyes while I was sewing the sole of her ballet slipper to the upper.

“All my friends’ parents have affairs or are divorced. You and Daddy are about the only parents in my class who’ve lived together for more than 10 years.”

“We are?”

“Yes, you’re so dull.”

I flashed my eyes. “How do you know I’m not having an affair anyway?” I retorted defensively.

“Oh, Ma, really, just look at you. If you were having an affair you’d have your hair done, you’d lose weight, you’d have your teeth capped and you’d buy high heels. You wouldn’t look like a banana loaf mother.”

“A banana loaf mother?”

“Yes, you’re comfortable not sexy.”

Have you ever tried to stop being comfortable? It’s not easy.

But, there comes a time in one’s life when you have to make a stand.

I phoned my good friend Betty.

“Have you noticed anything about us?” I asked her.

“About who?”

“About you and me.”

“What are you talking about?” she retorted. I could hear she hadn’t had her champagne and orange juice for breakfast, she sounded distinctly early-morning crabby.

“Look at us,” I continued. “Both of us in the prime of our lives and how would you describe us?”

She snorted.

“Precisely,” I answered. “That’s the whole point. Life is passing us by.”

“So, who has the energy to catch it?” she retorted.

At times my good friend Betty is distinctly pragmatic.

Indeed, a cat-hater, she’s the only person I know who keeps a cat to catch mice and if that’s not pragmatism, I don’t know what is.

“Have you thought of having an affair?” I asked her candidly.

“A what?” she answered, equally candidly.

“An affair?”

“With what?”

“You see, I made a mistake. We’re not in our prime, we’re definitely past it,” I snapped. I get snappy these days, it’s a sign of old age, they say.

“Oh, good heavens, you mean an affair with somebody else?” she laughed.

“Well, what did you think I meant, a wedding, a champagne brunch, a barmitzvah, a sizzling affair with a goldfish perhaps?”

Betty laughed louder.

“Carol, look at us,” she chortled. There’s nothing quite as distressing as a chortle first thing in the morning before your ears have a chance to wake up.

“Even if you did think of it, who would have you?”

She was right. Middle-aged, flat-footed, what man would fall for a woman whose greatest attribute in life was making cornflake crunchies?

There was one — and I was already married to him.

“Right,” I replied, with not a little asperity. “We must take a new look at ourselves. Get revamped. Call in a public relations officer to get a new image.”

I was in full stream: “Consult a couturier, go to gym, health and beauty classes, the hairdresser, take courses in French, body language and car maintenance.”

“Car maintenance?” She sounded mystified.

“Silly, that’s where we’ll meet potential affairs. I’ll book us in this week, what day suits you?”

There was a pause — a long pause.

“Carol, great, sounds great,” she murmured, “But unfortunately I can’t make it for the next few weeks.

“Gaby’s in a school play, Leora needs lifting here there and everywhere and what with David’s karate and soccer, I just don’t have a moment to spare.

“Maybe in a year or two, when things have let up a little.”

“You’re a banana loaf mother, that’s what you are,” I said irately as I replaced the phone.

Mind you, what with lifting, cooking, baking and rushing around, there wasn’t much time to spare.

In fact, after three nights of sitting up with sick children, dogs and plants with blight of the upper leaves, I decided that our daughter would have to be happy with a two-partner family.

It wasn’t a case of morality or immorality.

It was sheer pragmatism.

So, last night, when we had the replay conversation at supper, as so often happens in this family, and my daughter said: “Ma, why aren’t you having an affair? All my friends’ parents have affairs,” I just smiled.

“Nicky, it’s like this. Daddy and I are happily married — we’ve got a good thing going — we don’t feel like having an affair.” I smiled smugly.

My spouse, the object of my affection, seemed distracted by the soccer score issuing forth from the radio.

“Daddy and I are happy together.” To reiterate my point, I jumped up, flung my arms around my financial asset’s sloping shoulders and gave him a great big hug.

“You wouldn’t want to have an affair would you?” I asked him coyly.

His eyes flashed behind his spectacles and his hairs stood up on end.

“Life’s short,” he said.

“Not that short!” I snapped.

“True.”

His shoulders slumped and his head drooped into the clear chicken soup with feathers floating on the top.

If I wouldn’t have known better, I would have thought he was crying.

“Look, look, Daddy’s overjoyed, he’s crying tears of happiness,” said Nicky excitedly. “He’s so pleased he’s got you.”

Oh yeah?

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