Carol’s Column

Motherhood — it’s a great big crying rip-off

WHAT went wrong?

When I was a starry-eyed teenager — OK, when I was a cross-eyed teenager — I had visions of marriage and motherhood.

They were technicolour visions always accompanied by orchestral music.

In the visions, I’d see myself as an ethereal bride, floating down the aisle, a vision of loveliness.

In later visions I’d see myself: a mother, tripping along daintily, wheeling a streamlined Rolls Royce pram — the kind with the gilt chassis and the big wheels in the front.

I’d be laughing and cooing and inside the pram would sit one of my immaculately-groomed babies, gurgling and cooing in accompaniment.

In even later visions, I’d see myself surrounded by children, my hair a shining halo, a sweet, patient smile of understanding on my face as I lovingly listened to stories of joy, homework and whatever.

I’d see myself in a sparkling kitchen wearing a frilly apron baking endless delights that would fill the little stomachs of my charming children.

Oh, my visions were beautiful.

So, what went wrong?

I guess it started on my wedding day when I tripped on my train and fell down the aisle.

It was at that moment that one of my contact lenses dropped out which didn’t really matter other than I nearly married our best man by mistake.

Things deteriorated rapidly.

No teenage vision prepared me for motherhood.

For the reality of sleepless nights and babies that were always hungry, noisy and wet.

My pram was a pre-war hand-me-down that could have housed the entire South African army, so large was it, and my babies were never immaculate or gurgly.

On three separate occasions I left them at the supermarket but unfortunately, on all three occasions, they were returned to me.

I didn’t even try it with my fourth child — it wouldn’t have worked, they knew my phone number off by heart.

Oh, I tried to live up to the visions but it’s not easy to be a perfect mother.

Of 987 cakes I’ve baked over the years, only two have risen. And they rose right out of the tin.

I’ve tried. There’s no doubt I’ve tried.

And to an extent my family have backed me.

They didn’t say a word the night I served a can of dog food garnished with olives and capers as a paté dip.

In fact Jamie made a great show of taking a slice of French bread and dipping it into the paté, banging his lips together and slurping loudly in that engaging way he has.

When nobody was looking, he pushed it under the carpet.

They protected me the night I had 20 guests to dinner and dished up takeaway Peking duck instead of the promised venison that had been mistakenly marinating for a week in vinegar instead of wine.

“Ma, the venison is great,” they’d shouted in unison — whipping up the general feeling that the venison, indeed, was great.

It didn’t occur to any of our guests that what they were eating was no more venison than it was our maltese poodle.

Over the years, they’ve accepted my imperfections as a mother and compensated by volunteering me for everything.

I’m the only Jewish mother who’s ever played the Easter bunny, angel Gabriel and Father Christmas in one year.

When the singing mistress developed a spasm in her vocal chords my son volunteered me for hymn practise.

In the pre Mr Barker and Mr Lambert days at Rosebank Primary, Barry and Ralph volunteered me as a soccer coach.

Did it matter that I didn’t know the name of one position on the field? Who cared if in our first match, there were seven flying goalies?

And always, manning the posts — figuratively — I’d see other mothers, keen, noble, and imperfect, just like me.

In fact, motherhood’s a rip-off. Nobody warns you about motherhood before you start.

They forget to tell you about smelly nappies that turn into smelly socks that turn into smelly jeans that turn into smelly teenagers.

They forget to tell you that behind every happy, gurgling baby are years of interrupted sleep, months of burping, days of colic, heat rash and potty-training.

No mother is warned she’ll be doing school projects on the internal organs of a glow worm, the diet of a frog, Japanese traditions and culture, and what the well-dressed Siberian wears on holiday.

Had I and millions of other mothers around me known that in the space of 10 years or so we’d be covering 100 kilometres of school books, doing tuckshop duty till our corns burst, watching countless school rugby, soccer, tennis, hockey matches until our vocal chords stretched from shouting — I bet we’d have opted out of motherhood and gone for cultivating carnations instead.

And yet ... and yet ... tonight, as I kissed my four offspring goodnight when I popped in to make sure they were still breathing and dreaming happy dreams, I couldn’t help feeling smug.

OK, so they look like me with their sticking-out ears and knock knees.

But one thing’s for sure, they’ll all make imperfect parents, just like me.

What more could any mother wish for.

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