Carol’s Column

Exams are hell on the cells

I HAVE two recurring nightmares. The first is that I should be stuck in a desert for three months without a bottle of hair dye. The other is that I should have to rewrite matric maths.

The latter nightmare came to mind this morning when my good friend Betty phoned.

“I’ve had it!” she said. I could hear the phone quivering. “I can’t take these exams. They’re exhausting me.”

I could only agree. In one week this household has been swotting for history, maths, science, Afrikaans, economics, comparative African government, Roman law and statistics and it’s too much.

Like the sword of Attila, a sense of gloom hangs over our home. Alarm clocks ring throughout the night, while cross-eyed Lazars waken to study the reproductive system of the amoeba, operationalising the strategy management process, Afrikaanse woordeskat or gerunds.

“I know how you feel,” I replied. I’m having sleepless nights with history. Talk about the Assyrians coming down like a wolf on the fold, we’ve had the Afrikaners coming down like aardvarks on the ants, we’ve had the British coming down like baboons on the pods, and next week it’s the Zulus coming down like warthogs on the truffles.”

“Don’t talk,” said Betty, “so what’s your first exam?”

“Geometry. We write on Friday. Jamie’s battling and my hair’s falling out.”

“But as mothers, we have a duty,” said Betty.

I took another sip of gin and orange juice to get my early morning sugar level to rise.

“True,” I said thinking about how satisfied I’d felt after two hours of history, one of biology and Afrikaans spelling, the day before.

“Our children need us at a time like this. They need the endless cups of cocoa, the slices of banana bread and the motherly support.”

That night I cooked my offspring baked fish in lime.

“What on earth is this?” said Jamie.

“That’s fish,” I replied. “It’s fantastic for your brain cells. It gives them energy.”

“Mine don’t need energy,” muttered Jamie, “they need a rest.”

For breakfast I fed them liver. The experts say it stimulates the memory. My family revolted.

“My memory likes cornflakes,” said Nicky adamantly, while Jamie murmured something about liver and “Portnoy’s Complaint”.

This week I refused six invitations. “Why?” said my financial asset.

“We can’t go out while the kids are swotting,” I answered, appalled. “It would be unfeeling, uncaring. Besides, who will test them, who will take them snacks, who will wake them when they fall asleep?”

Every mother needs a good worry. It’s good for the heart, liver, spleen and kidneys. They say.

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