Carol’s Column

Sons, daughters, decisions and dual standards

There comes a time in life when everyone has to make important decisions. Such as: whom should I take to the matric dance, the captain of the rugby team who looks like Kevin Costner but is a cretinous half-wit or the chairman of the chess club who is wonderful company but who has buck teeth and flat feet?

Motherhood has its own trials and daily, throughout South Africa, mothers make momentous decisions.

like: no, you can't wear lipstick because boys don't wear lipstick. Or: no, you can't leave school just because you know how to read and write. Or: no, you can't have a motorbike when you turn 16 just because all your friends have motorbikes. When kids get older, the decisions become more difficult. Last week my only unmarried daughter phoned from Cape Town. "Ma, I'm coming home for the July holidays," she giggled excitedly.

I was thrilled. We haven't seen Nicky for ages.

"And, Ma, John's coming up for a few days at the end of the holidays. I told him it would be fine if he stayed with us."

"Lovely, it will be lovely having Johnny here."

I heard my spouse revving into the driveway and dashed outside.

"What's the matter?" he said. "You look like the face of doom."

"Nicky's coming home for the holidays," I gasped.

"Great," he said.

"With her boyfriend. Her boyfriend's going to stay here too."

"So?"

"So, where will they sleep?"

"In beds," answered my husband.

"That's just it, what beds?"

He sat down, his face white. "This is my little girl you're talking about," he twitched.

I nodded my head vigorously. "Your little girl has just turned 19 and is not so little. Times have changed. Think about it, when the boys had their girlfriends to stay, where did they sleep? It wasn't even discussed, they slept with the boys."

"But that's different. Boys are different."

"Why?" I said. "You're discriminating against our daughter. These are modern times, if they want to share a room, why shouldn't they? You have double standards."

"So have you," he said, "otherwise why are your nostrils flaring and your cheeks red? That only happens when you're agitated."

He was right. This was our precious daughter we were speaking about. I was a fraud, I was liberated as a peanut in its shell.

I phoned my good friend Betty. "No comment," she said. "This is a sensitive issue in our house."

Aha! "You see, we're not alone in this," I said to my spouse. "We must be direct," I added. "Confront Nicky and tell her that some things are not acceptable."

As I said it, I knew my young daughter would give me five thousand words. She'd explain logically why we were being irrational, not to mention discriminatory, and she'd be right.

I called Nicky and chatted about her brothers, the dogs, cats, my new hair cut, and then I came out with it. "Nicky, when Johnny comes, he can sleep in Barry's room."

"Ma, of course," said my daughter. "Where else would he sleep?" Where else indeed.

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