His second pearl of wisdom is the point he made about having children. He argues that in our warped society you need a license to drive, a license to carry a firearm, a license to fish, but the one license you don’t need is for having children. And it's undeniably the most important responsibility in the whole world. “Any lunatic can have a child,” he says. And he’s got a valid point. Not the lunatic part. The having children part. You don’t need a license to have a child and I’ve noticed that nowhere is this declaration more apt than in Britain. This country may be stingy when it comes to garden size, parking space, road width and public displays of affection, but when it comes to family size they’re happy to supersize. And supersize they do. What I find the most entertaining is the contraption required to transport a bevvy of sprogs. And we’re not talking a taxi or what they euphemistically call here a ‘people carrier’. That goes without saying. Unless you pack the surplus in the boot, which would be my solution but would probably result in a visit from social services, a standard family Toyota Corolla just isn’t going to work. I’m referring to the type of pram you need for outdoor transportation. Anyone who’s had children knows that the pram is an important purchase (well for your first kid anyway). The pram required for multiple offspring must be a purchase and then some. And then some more. I’ve spotted a particular pram that stacks the kids on top of each other like those stacking cups my daughter plays with in the bath. So picture a double pram that you’d get for twins. And then add a second storey on top of that. Literally on top. I call the whole contraption “The Galaxy”. My little in-joke with myself. The top-level kids on The Galaxy seem pretty happy with life. They’re in first class after all. They get a window seat with a view. They must be the gifted ones. It’s the poor blighters stuffed into the bottom layer who get the bum deal. The cheap seats. Most of the time they’re asleep. I’d also probably choose oblivion. Embrace the cocoon of darkness and warmth below your brother or sister. The firstborn walks alongside The Galaxy and child no. 2 is attached to the chassis with one of those harnesses that really is just the same principle as a dog leash, but you're not supposed to call it that. And Superwoman Mom with the abdominal core of Jane Fonda is at the helm of everything navigating through the traffic, propelling her charges to school where they make up 30% of a class. It’s a sight to behold. Don’t even ask what The Galaxy looks like when it rains.
Mockery aside, I do have the utmost respect for a mother on her own with that number of children to have to shepherd to any destination. I can barely get it together alone with two. I only have one to get to school fed, watered and clothed on time and it damn near breaks me. At least every second day (ok, ok every day) I genuinely feel the urge to have a celebratory G&T at 9.30am after it’s all done. It’s that chaotic. There are tears and tantrums. And that’s just me. I also have to confess that while I mock it, we’re also reluctant members of the child transport contraption club. We have what would probably be called The Galaxy Lite. A pram with a set of wheels that clip on for my son to stand on and lean in a Titanic-esque pose against the frame. Navigating that beast is a daily battle and I often bribe my kid with sweets (yes at 8.30 in the morning, what’s wrong with that?) to please for the love of jam walk rather than ride. I am desperate for any chance to avoid grunting my way up the slight incline to the school with nearly 30 kilograms in wind resistance. Before you add in the actual wind resistance. Most often I’m successful, but the oke has special powers. He’s as sneaky as an SA speed camera copper just before Christmas. He’ll eat the sweets and then ask for a lift halfway along the journey. If I refuse, he sits down on the street and won’t budge. I have to pick my battles with this motherhood thing. I want to take off my shoe and tan his backside, but I don’t want to get arrested or actually take off my shoe. And I also really want him to go to school. So I do what any self-respecting mother does when her back is against the wall. I bribe some more. I bargain that if he walks, we go to the park after school. We’d be going anyway. But he doesn’t need to know that. He replies that he’ll accept the park offer but I have to throw in an ice-cream. I agree. It’s a deal. Calm restored. And so we plunder on. I’ve often said that politics are parenthood have a lot in common. It’s underhand bribery and corruption all the way with a lot of shame, subterfuge and ridiculous stories you're forced to make up to get yourself out of a tight spot.
Why not simply drive to school you ask? Fair question. The parking outside the school is such a dogshow that we’d find parking the equivalent distance as our house is from the school. Just in the opposite direction. So we’d need the blinding pram anyway. When my kids are old enough or I’ve got all the angles of the bribery thing better worked out, I’m going take great pleasure in having a little celebration to mark the occasion of giving the pram the boot. There will indeed be wine. Probably gin too. Where do I boot the pram? To a Galaxy Far Far Away, of course.
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| The Galaxy Lite |
