Carol’s Column

Cricket, mealies and joy of being mother-in-law-to-be

The Big M is here - and it happened like this.

I was sitting on the stoep enjoying a romantic lunch for three - myself, my husband and the cricket-blasting television, munching mealies, butter dripping, when the phone rang.

"Hi, Ma," said my oldest unmarried son from deep America. "I've got news for you," he added.

I crunched softly in order to hear his news.

"Is that a thunderstorm?" he asked. I dulled the crunch further. "Well, I'm looking after Melissa," he said.

"Good, good," I replied. "Why are you looking after Melissa? What's wrong with Melissa, I don't think there's anything wrong with Melissa. She's lovely.

"Dad and I both like Melissa. Ouma likes Melissa. Ralph, Jamie and Nicky like Melissa and even the dogs like Melissa. In fact we don't like Melissa, we love Melissa, we all love Melissa!"

"Stop pressurising the boy," said my husband.

"Yes, stop pressurising me," said the boy. "Ma, you're going into over-kill mode. Listen to what I'm saying. I'm going to be looking after Melissa for the rest of my life."

I said: "I'm not pressurising you. I didn't mention the 'M' word. I would never ever say 'marriage'. I know marriage isn't trendy. Young people don't get married. I don't mind being the only one among all my friends who doesn't have a married son or daughter or a grandchild to play with."

Then it registered. "What do you mean you're going to be looking after Melissa for the rest of your life?" I said.

"Well, what do you think I mean?" he countered.

My husband's eyes were glued to the cricket as he steadily gnawed his way along the mealie, from left to right and back again. Gnaw, gnaw, crunch.

"This is not pressurisation but I think it may be happening," I hissed to my spouse.

In the excitement, I hit him, causing the cob to be inadvertently swallowed whole, which meant he couldn't retort.

"Quiet, be quiet, stop choking, I can't hear what Barry's saying."

Then Melissa came on to the line. Between the tears, choking and gurgling on this side and giggles in the USA, we learnt that, indeed, this was it. Barry and Melissa had decided to get married.

To say we were overjoyed is an understatement. We killed so many celebratory bottles of chilled champagne that we didn't move from the stoep for three days.

And my tiny octogenarian mother danced the kazutska (a well-known Russian dance involving much knee bending and vigorous leg springs which even massive 20-year-old youths built like oxen find difficult to execute).

"I told you he’d stop sucking a dummy, start washing his own socks and get married by the time he turns 30," she kept saying.

Only later, when I was discussing the great event with my good friend Betty, did reality set in.

"You realise," she said, "you’re almost a mother-in-law."

A mother-in-law?

This morning I looked in the mirror and there's no doubt, I do look like a mother-in-law-to-be.

I made a silent vow to Melissa, my daughter-in-law-to-be.

I promise never to tell you that I make the lightest potato latkes in the world, even if I do.

I promise never to tell you that Barry was the most beautiful baby in the world, even if he was.

And I promise not to tell you how he crawled at four months (a genius, said my father, your late grandfather-in-law-to-be).

And I promise to always mind my own business.

Well, almost always ...

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