Carol’s Column

Every mother has a cross to — bear some are heavier than others

EVERY mother has her cross to bear.

In my case it’s Gretchen Google.

Gretchen Google is the bane of my life.

She is the reason why I am thinking of opting out of mothering.

It doesn’t matter that she has five boys, a flat chest, a flat face and wears crimplene suits. She’s still a super-mother.

For as long as I can remember, my offspring have been holding Gretchen Google before me as the perfect mother.

She’s always smiling. The grey roots of her hair never grow out and her nail varnish is never chipped.

She always bakes cakes for the school cake sales.

She’s a swimming mother, tuck mother, oranges-at-half-time mother, soccer mother, and she even sends back school forms marked ‘URGENT — RETURN TOMORROW OR YOUR CHILD WILL BE ANNIHILATED’ immediately.

She drives teams of children anywhere.

She’s cookie mother for the chess club and she’s cell mother for the PTA.

In her spare time she does pottery, karate, belly dancing, transcendental meditation, flower arranging and goes to abstract art classes.

Her house is immaculate, her furniture shines, and her always glittering car never breaks down.

Her children never go to school with buttonless blazers, holey shirts and undarned pants.

They never go to school with socks-worn-three-days in a row, with borrowed underpants, hair unbrushed and full of lice, (mind you, they are fashionable — everyone who’s anyone has lice these days).

Her children smell of Roget Gallet soap, they bath at least once a day and their hair is cut by a hair artiste.

She never runs out of food, forgets to defrost the chicken or runs up an overdraft in the bank.

She budgets every month.

The Google children carry kingsize lunch boxes stocked with fresh homemade-bread sandwiches, bulging with healthy bananas, bean sprouts and free-running chicken in aspic.

And they all have beautiful, cavity-free teeth that sparkle in the sunlight.

She’s got a wardrobe of genuine Guccis, Ferragamo shoes and seven fun furs. One for each PTA meeting of the year.

Gretchen Google always fetches her children on time, has never lost a child in a supermarket or the lion park, always sends ‘thank-you’ notes to dinners, funerals and weddings and always remembers birthday presents.

She has two magnificent, sterilised, manicured, pet-parloured dogs that never smell or muck all over the lawn before you have friends for a braai, a purple-dyed Burmese cat and a pet crocodile called Casper.

Her husband never snores, forgets her name, falls asleep at dinner parties and he always kisses her hello, goodbye and goodnight.

I hate her.

This morning my youngest son complained about the chocolate cake I’d baked for the soccer team.

“Ma, it looked great on the outside. The icing was super. But why did you stuff the inside with toilet paper? It tasted dreadful. Last time you used tissues — at least they melt.

“Mrs Google always bakes real chocolate cakes, she uses real chocolate and sprinkles choc flakes over the top.”

There are times when children should be seen and not heard. This was one of them.

He continued: “Anyway, you’re the only mother in the whole school who makes a cake from a loaf of bread and ices it. Why can’t you be more like Mrs Google?

Nicky came home from school bubbling. “Mrs Google organised a super French project for Jasper. She hired the Alliance Francaise to recite poetry, Francois Mitterrand to dance the can can and Brigette Bardot to discuss wildlife.

“Ma, it was much better than your Seychelles project. Anyway, how could you say the Seychelles was part of China. Miss Brown was furious, Mrs Google got a good-work stamp. Why can’t you make projects like Mrs Google?”

Ralph and Barry were more understanding. “Leave Ma alone,” they said to their younger siblings. “She’s a trier. At least she’s an enthusiastic failure. What do you want, a trade-in?”

Both Jamie and Nicky were vociferous in their response. “Yes,” they said.

In fact, Jamie was specific: “I don’t know why Ma can’t be like Mrs Google?”

Why indeed? I’ll tell you why.

I like my dirty but interesting children. I like the excitement of never knowing where anything is in the house.

I think life’s too short to darn pants and sew sleeves on shirts.

Why bake cakes when iced bread will do? And anyway, who needs children with white, cavity-free teeth? Dentist, orthodontists and periodontists have to live.

I like junk food — it’s quicker to pack into lunchboxes. I like shaggy dogs and best of all, I like my husband’s snoring — at least I know he’s still alive.

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