Open Writing

I give up. I’ve contemplated the situation from every angle and I’ve concluded that there is no solution. I just can’t win no matter what I do. “Cool Mum” is a contradiction in terms, an impossibility, an oxymoron. “Well, you’ve got that much right,” grunts my teenage son, “but you can drop the ‘oxy’ part.”

It seems that all I have to do is show up to be an automatic embarrassment to my son. I don’t know about you but I find it most difficult to be absent when I am physically present. I could do with one of those Harry Potter invisibility cloaks. I’ve even contemplated putting a paper bag over my head – one with holes cut out for my eyes and nose, sort of like a Halloween pumpkin or a thief in a balaclava – but that would only draw attention to myself and we wouldn’t want that now, would we? Perhaps I could persuade all mums to don a paper bag and then I would be less conspicuous.

I wouldn’t mind but I do make an effort to be presentable. I don’t dress outlandishly in all the colours of a rainbow lorikeet nor do I dress younger than my age, leaving my midriff exposed or hanging over my waist band in what the Aussies call a “muffin top.” When it comes to waistbands, I try to be trendy by wearing lower slung ones so as not to have his peers label me, ‘Harry Highpants.’ I know that the school boys have a saying, “The higher the pants, the closer to heaven.” I’ve overheard his mates’ cruel scale of female, physical appearance and I would hope that I’m closer to a ‘looker’ than I am to an ‘oompah loompah.’ Besides, I would have more money to spend on myself if only my son would stop siphoning off 80% of my budget in food consumption alone.

I make a conscious effort to behave myself. I usually stand demurely to the side with no loud or sudden noises. If only he knew how embarrassing I could be. For example, I don’t do my cackling, kookaburra laugh where I throw my head back and imitate those raucous birds at full throttle. I save this for my young nephews who fall about and shriek delightedly, “Do it again!” At least I am appreciated at the kindergarten level. Nor do I launch into the Zulu language which I learnt in my youth in South Africa. I bet that I could draw a fair sized crowd at the school gate with my clicking tongue and whooping ululations. I could supplement this with a leg-kicking warrior dance and embellish it with a stick fighting song. Come to think of it, some of those Zulu maidens used to go about bare chested…..

Only last night I was at the school, attending a parent/teacher night. My son was loitering nearby, being careful to be not quite with me. Suddenly I remembered that the headmaster himself had requested that we all wear our name badges. As I reached into my handbag to take out my shiny badge I saw my son put his hand to his forehead. “Oh no, Mum,” he hissed, “whatever you do, don’t go and remove all doubt.”