Carol’s Column

Full marks for matric tact and tactics

MY HAIR is falling out with the strain. I don't sleep at night, my eyes are shrunken and my teeth have faded.

Our normally noisy, happy household that resembles Park Station at rush hour has become a mausoleum, with everyone tip-toeing around and wheezing in whispers.

Everyone that is, except Jamie, my third youngest unmarried son, who recently informed me that he wasn't my third youngest unmarried son but in fact my youngest unmarried son, his brothers Barry and Ralph having preceded him in their expulsion from the maternal birth canal.

"Ma, you will be hearing from my lawyer shortly," said my youngest son the other day. "Ever since I can remember, you have been misrepresenting me in the eyes of the world. Furthermore, this has caused psychological problems in my life which has resulted in an identity crisis. If I do badly in matric, that's why."

To get back to the original track. Jamie has been writing matric, which means that everyone in this house has been suitably silent in order that he may concentrate on his studies. He is being treated like royalty.

For instance. "Good heavens," said my husband, "What is that horrible noise? It sounds as if someone is trying to strangle himself." Then he turned white. Well, whiter than normal. "Jamie," he gasped, "where's Jamie?"

"That is Jamie," I muttered.

"I must save him." He abandoned his muesli-with-bran-and-peanuts-for-energy and leapt from the table splattering the scrambled eggs over the floral arrangement.

"Relax, relax," I said quickly. "Jamie's fine. That's his music blasting away."

"I thought he was swotting," said my spouse, his spectacles doing a dance on the tip of his nose as they do when he is aroused.

"He is," I said, "but he needs musical nourishment when he works and that's the nourishment you hear wailing."

And talking about nourishment, everyone knows that brain cells need nurturing and the serious student should be fed large quantities of liver, baked fish, mashed carrots and other brain foods.

Which is why this family has embarked on a new food programme. Especially for Jamie.

"What is this?" he asked when I made him grilled liver with diced onions.

"That is brain food," I replied proudly. It's at times like this that motherhood is worthwhile.

"Yuk," said my youngest unmarried son.

It was then that I established he did not care for liver, fish or carrots.

But mothers are resourceful.

Each day I have managed to create a brain-nourishing meal, because with imagination, it is easy to disguise fish or carrots.

"These mushrooms taste just like carrots," said my husband last week. I kicked him so hard under the table that I nearly amputated my large toe.

We've had fish disguised as chicken and steak and carrots in the form of potatoes and mushrooms but the liver managed to get the better of me.

Liver is liver. Except in "Portnoy's Complaint".

Meanwhile, we're more than halfway through matric and I've developed the tact and wisdom of a Solomon or a Pik Botha.

"So how did the exam go?" I say as Jamie emerges from school, his eyebrows drooping and his shoulders bowed down by the strain of a three-hour exam.

"Don't ask," he answers, rolling his eyes heavenwards and twitching in that way that teenage sons do.

"Great, great," I answer to give him encouragement. This ritual happens after each exam.

The other day, my good friend Betty phoned. "Let's take in a movie on Saturday night," she said.

I was scandalised. "We can't," I said, "we still have chemistry, history and English creative writing, I couldn't possibly go out."

"No, go," said my studious son. "I've got a party on Saturday."

"A party? Do you think a party is wise?" I asked tactfully.

"C'mon, Ma, I've been working hard. I've been learning chemistry for 12 years now. Enough is enough."

Yesterday, my good friend Betty phoned again. "Listen, I've found the perfect way to disguise liver," she said. "Try it and Jamie will never know."

Only this morning I made a milkshake with two eggs, a dash of honey, grated liver and vanilla ice-cream.

"Gosh thanks, Ma," said my son gratefully. "I really appreciate you going to so much trouble."

Later, after Jamie had left for school, I found his goldfish swimming in the milkshake. They did not look happy.

I think he is trying to tell me something.

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