Let me talk about the lady that gave birth to me via caesarean for a second. She’s a strong bird, very controlling at the best of times, but also one of the greatest people on this Earth.
Growing up I was a Daddy’s girl. I made transistor radios with him, played with electric trains, built treehouses together. Most little girls play with the Barbie and Ken pool set. I did this too, but I enjoyed hanging out with my pops.
My mum and I didn’t get on when I was a teenager. And we still argue like Italians when we are in the same room together.
But never have I been closer to my mum as I am now.
My old lady is not only my mother; she’s my ultimate confidante and mate now. She’s put up a lot with my shit over the years, but I’ve also put up with hers. But now that she considers me an adult I suppose (even though she still brings me healthy meals and offers to help out financially with doctor and dental procedures etc.), I can chat to her about anything. She only has my interests at heart.
I speak to her everyday. I tell her in length about dates I go on, ask her advice on career plans and matters of the heart. We don’t talk about sex – eew and thank God – but she knows what I do in my relationships and I certainly know what she does as well. I relay her stories of big nights out. She’ll worry about how I got home and if I drank too much, but she’ll always laugh. She’s French, and we find the same things hilarious about the Francophile culture.
I think she realises deep down that her daughter, although eccentric and wild, is actually pretty sensible when it comes to her own safety and well-being. It’s my dad who is overly-protective and isn’t quite sure if I can handle myself.
I will never for instance tell my dad I went out and got hammered and kissed an Eastern Cape farmer, or that I smoke pot on the odd occasion, or that I know what the word ‘sex’ means, like I tell my old lady. I love my dad, but we’re still very-much father and daughter, and since he lives in Cape Town, and we chat on a superficial level (and that he’s as mad as a Hatter), we’re not nearly as close as my mum and I.
Put it this way, my mum knows all about my blog, and what debauchery lies herein. My dad hasn’t a clue. He’d die a slow and painful death, so I would never voluntarily guide him here.
I’ll never forget a special bonding session my mum and I had when I was 17 years old. Over vomit. Oh yes.
I went out with some school friends to see ‘a movie’, and as things go, we went out and got hammered instead. We must’ve reeked of booze when my dad pitched up ten minutes before curfew time, revving the engine, to pick us up. Got home, room was spinning, and promptly vomited next to my bed. Forgot about it the next morning, when dad woke me up, opened the bloody curtains and bought me tea, as he did every Saturday. He noticed nothing amiss. My mother walked in and immediately knew: “Peas where is it. Where did you park a tiger?”
I pointed to the side of my bed. “Whoops.”
“She rolled up her sleeves, “Right. Let’s clean this up. Quickly. Before your father finds out and grounds you for the rest of your life.”
We cleaned it up together in silence. Dad never found out.
Mum backpacked with me around Europe for a bit, and was the ultimate trooper. Slept in a tent with me in olive groves in Italy, made friends, came out to pubs with me (but resisted the club scene, thank goodness). She was more like a sister than a mother on that trip.
We swap clothes, she knows how to have a party but also back down at the appropriate moment, she’s travelled and lived abroad extensively, in places like Angola, Thailand and Dubai. On her own for the most part. She’s amazing.
I dig her. She drives me mad, I drive her mad; but my mother is just so special.
PS: R is taking me down to Natal in ten days time. With Moogs and his girlfriend L. He says he's keen to see where I grew up and wants me to show him my boarding school. How sweet is that?