Carol’s Column

Parenthood’s prosaic myths

Many moons ago when hyenas stalked around the Zoo Lake and giraffes peered through the oak leaves, I wrote school English essays. But in those days, essays were called compositions.

Naturally, subject matter was intellectually taxing with topics such as “Christmas on the farm”, or “My favourite pet”.

Which is why I was a little taken aback when I heard my teenage daughter of the long eyelashes and ethnic sandals chatting to Ninette on the phone.

“I can’t make up my mind whether to do ‘Rambo’, ‘Motherhood is Dead — a carefully structured and intelligently formulated speech deflating the myth of happy parenthood’ — or ‘And Thus Man Ended the World’”.

She continued: “I think I’ll settle on ‘The Prince’s Passion Slays PM’s Daughter’.”

Rambo and the Prince’s Passion? Any mother would have been intrigued.

My daughter concluded her conversation with Ninette, replaced the receiver and sighed dramatically as teenage daughters do in times of crisis. Such as when a new pimple is born.

“What’s the problem?” I queried.

“Mr Mason says I have to be original. I have to be different,” said my daughter.

“Tell Mr Mason that you are original. And different,” I added. “Who else craves green peppers?”

Nicky raised her eyebrows. “Ma, that’s not what I mean,” she said. “Mr Mason wants creative writing.”

She handed me her English assignment. It said:

“Today’s the day to write the most original piece of writing you have ever attempted. As most matric exam compositions are so dry and predictable, you are now being given a chance to experiment with a number of modes of writing ...”

“Nicky, this is wonderful,” I enthused.

The topics ranged from “Kerels by Candlelight” a satirical article in South African English, to a new article on the “Death of Hamlet’s Ophelia”.

My daughter scowled gloomily and exited from the room.

I phoned my good friend Betty.

“When did you last write an English essay?” I asked.

“It was before one of the wars,” murmured Betty. “The Anglo-Boer War? Or was it the Battle of Waterloo?”

“That was in 1814,” I exclaimed.

“Yes, well, I knew it was a while back,” replied Betty.

I told her about Nicky’s original English writing.

“Be thankful she doesn’t have to write about the sex life of a centipede,” said Betty darkly. “The Orange Free State matrics had that as a topic last year.”

Right now, my daughter is deciding to write “An extract from Chapter 7 of either a soppy, sentimental love story, or a highly exaggerated episode of macho mayhem (viz Rambo, the A Team).”

She seems set on Rambo.

Meanwhile I have a recurring triple nightmare.

Namely, that I have to re-write matric maths, that I get stuck in a desert for three months without a bottle of hair dye and that one of my sons says “Congratulations, Ma, you are about to become a grandmother”.

I now have another fear. That I will go through life without Mr Mason ever asking me to write an essay on “Motherhood is Dead. — a carefully structured and intelligently formulated speech deflating the myth of happy parenthood”.

I know I could get 100 percent without even trying.

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