Carol’s Column

Thermal pants his bottom line

Mothers are like ducks. They waddle, quack and spend their wakeful hours ensuring that their quacklettes have enough to eat.

When their ducklings grow up, turn into grandducks and leave the nest, they become depressed and morose. Within days, they shed their energy and turn into lethargic slugs.

On Thursday morning I woke up a happy duck and went to bed a sad slug.

Why? Because my oldest unmarried son finally cut his umbilical cord, flushed his dummy away, wrapped his Krugerrand in his made-in-Hong-Kong silk handkerchief, put some biltong in his spare takkies and flew off to America.

He announced his intentions a while back: “Listen, I have this opportunity to work in America for a few years”.

“America? Why America? It’s so far away. If you want to leave home, what’s wrong with Pretoria?” I said.

“Ma, this is a chance to spread my wings and see the world,” replied Barry, who only yesterday stopped riding his tricycle and jumping off the roof in a Batman suit.

I couldn’t believe it. My duckling was abandoning the security of his fatherland and departing for distant shores where the wild natives chewed gum and spoke funny.

“Ma, you don’t look happy,” said Barry.

“Of course I am,” I replied, wiping my tears on my table napkin. “I think it’s wonderful that you’re leaving us for ever to live on the other side of the world.”

“Ma, it’s not for ever,” said my son. “And, anyway, life’s short, one has to go for it.”

“Barry’s right,” said my spouse, “this is an incredible growing experience, he has to take it. Besides, you’re not losing a son, you’re gaining a bedroom.”

Of course, they were all right. I was behaving like a clinging mother. But why not. Let’s face it, one’s clinging motherhood years are limited. One day there’s the patter of flat feet and the sound of the stereo going full blast and then, suddenly, you’re alone with your spouse, wrinkles and 19-year-old dog with halitosis.

And then it was time for Barry to leave. Naturally, I bought him one or two necessities.

“Ma, I don’t need 12 pairs of thermal underpants,” said Barry. “San Diego is hot. Anyway they won’t fit into my rucksack.”

“Okay, we’ll send a few parcels by surface mail,” I said and rushed out to stock up.

By the time I’d finished packing, there were 24 parcels and 18 of them were food.

“You’re overdoing it,” said my husband. “What on earth is the boy going to do with 18 bottles of blatjang, 700 peppermint crisps and 100 packets of dried wors?”

“He’s going to eat them,” I muttered.

Then “Ma, I can’t travel halfway across the world carrying a bow and arrow and an assegai,” said my son.

“Why?” I asked defiantly. “It’s part of your ancestral roots.”

“A Jewish Shaka,” said my husband. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

On Thursday morning, we set off for the airport.

“Don’t be miserable,” I said to Barry’s girlfriend Sheryl as I dished out the tissues. “You’ll see him soon.”

“Maybe even sooner than you think,” said my teenage daughter. “They won’t let him on to the plane with eight suitcases.”

Last night, I scratched through old home movies and found the first one we ever made of Barry. The one where his little naked bottom fits into his father’s palm, and his head wobbles when it’s not supported. It was taken before his 21st birthday.

“He’s changed so much,” I murmured.

“Yes, at least he’ll wear thermal underwear when he arrives in America,” said my daughter.

True. With 12 pairs of thermal underpants, my oldest son is ready to face the world.

What could be more satisfying than that?

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