Carol’s Column

The day my daughter turned into a swan

WHEN my daughter was born, my husband was present, as is the fashion. He'd also been present for the birth of our three sons preceding Nicky so he was experienced in the grand affair of birth.

"Good God, he's got no balls!" he yelled. He was, of course, partly correct and partly incorrect.

He didn't have any but then he was a she.

It was an easy mistake to make for after three boys, we knew categorically our fourth would be another lad. In fact, in utero, she'd been known as Andrew Ian.

Nicky, for we finally named her Nicola after various other tries with Wendy, Gail and Jacqueline, grew into a plump, knock-kneed toddler with long black eyelashes, spikey hedgehog hair and a determined disposition.

A typical little girl, she rejected dolls, caught a record tiger fish at the age of eight, scuba dived when she was 10, learnt to drive a four-wheel-drive when she was 12 and was generally happier in the bush of Botswana than jolling around glitzy shopping malls.

When she was five, she announced she would be a medical ballerina, alternatively a dancing doctor. At 11 she decided she'd become a singing economist, at 14 she fell in love with history and French and at 17, she is still passionate about history and French has been modified to Frenchmen.

Nevertheless, on Saturday night, she shocked us when she appeared at the top of the stairs. Tall and lovely in her matric dance dress, her long dark hair shining, she looked beautiful.

"Our little aardvark has turned into a sleek sable," murmured my spouse, his spectacles misting.

She departed with her date, tall and handsome in his tux and we were overcome with pride.

However, I didn't really have time to get maudlin and sentimental because I had to prepare for the invasion.

It happened like this. "Ma, we're having a pre-dance party, then there's the dance, then there's the after-dance party, then we're going to the after-after-dance party, then we thought we'd go to watch the sun rising on Northcliff hill. And then...?"

There was silence, which is unusual in our household.

"And then?" I asked.

"And then I thought we might have the champagne breakfast here," said my daughter hopefully.

"Sure," I answered magnanimously. "How many kids? Fifteen, 20, 30?"

"Well, I'm not sure," she said. "It may be a few more than that."

"How few more?"

"A hundred, or so."

"Or so?" So what do you do when your youngest unmarried daughter announces she's holding a small champagne breakfast for 100 or so of her friends after the matric dance?

"You can't leave the country," said Nicky, "You're over-reacting. We'll keep it simple. Everyone will bring champagne, we'll provide a little orange juice and perhaps a cereal or two."

"Two hundred croissants! They'll never eat 200 croissants," said my husband when I despatched him before dawn to fetch them.

They began arriving at about 6.30 am and, I must be honest, I didn't recognise them.

They all looked stunning. The boys unbelievably handsome and each girl a sparkling, dazzling princess.

Gone were the tightly-tied pony tails and plaits. In their place were shining heads of glorious tresses, long and daring, short and wildly exotic.

Gone were the shapeless, lumpy girls in their short skirts and over-sized jerseys. Gone were the pimply boys with scrawny necks in their too-tight school shirts and untidy ties.

At 7 am they were more sparkling than the champagne they drank. At 8 am they attacked the cereal and spanspek, at 9 am they were giggling and eating boerewors and croissants smothered in honey.

Finally, by noon, the last one had gone. As had all the croissants, the orange juice and the champagne.

"Thank you, that was lovely," said our little girl. "I think I'm going to sleep for a year," and she wafted off to bed.

Every parent should have a daughter. They're good for the soul. And liver, spleen and kidneys, too.

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