All those hyphens! You can actually feel the jumps and the starts, no smooth flow here… and I don’t just mean the heading at the top of the page. I’m actually referring to you and me and every other woman who finds herself being given the dubious honour of suddenly answering to the above mentioned title.
Of course I’ve known for a while now that it was an event just waiting to happen now that his graduation cap and gown have gathered almost as much dust as his Grade One uniform. But still it comes as a bolt from the blue. There’s no grand ceremony (well, not yet), no pomp and circumstance, no national holiday declared. Not even a pink balloon or two to herald the arrival of this daughter.
And although I know that I should be grateful that the stork who bought along this latest addition to the family was considerate enough to do all the work on his own this time, without a single contraction required on my part, I find myself somewhat bewildered that somehow this whole affair seems rather more traumatic than the one many moons ago that found me, despite the stitches, beaming à la Julia Roberts from a hospital bed adorned with blue ribbons.
This time around, the balloons, in striking silver and gold have tied their strings to the wrists of my son’s betrothed and from the funny way he’s been acting those balloons appear to be floating on air with something more heady than just your old humdrum oxygen in it.
For just when I thought raging hormones had finally disappeared with the orthodontist’s bills and Little League timetables, they seem to have come back with a vengeance. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not some cynical old hag who has forgotten what it is like to sing along to “Love Is In The Air” without the word cheesy once entering her head, but surely if the power of love could so transform a man, then the BBC would never have been able to give us breaking news of such blood and tears every other second.
Surely, it must be something potent that for example, has made it finally click for my son that you have to think about which gift you want to get someone at least an hour before you plan on giving it. I thought age was making my hearing go downhill when he asked me how long I thought it would take Aramex to deliver a designer handbag as HER birthday was in November—this was in July. And by the way, where was I when he discovered that Burberry did things in leather that were much sought after by the opposite sex? Previously to him, the checked giants had only ever meant the liquid in bottles that he always got as presents from uncles in a rush at the Duty Free shop.
Of course, my pen just flies across the lines as I write about the mind boggling changes in my newly engaged son and heir, but it begins to s-l-o-w down as it begins to realize that it is only fair to all parties concerned that it scribbles down an itsy bitsy mention of the equally momentous changes in your humble writer.
Picture the scene. Last weekend, there we all were, ready to set off on our annual seaside trip when we found ourselves in the oh so familiar situation of waiting for our son to join us at our mutually agreed upon early start. My husband is getting more and more impatient (so far, so normal). Twenty minutes later and he is getting hotter and hotter under the collar (and he hasn’t even hit a beach yet) and his hand has become a fist glued to the car horn. When suddenly it dawns on him that the reason his horn is making such a racket is not because it is 6 o’clock on a Friday morning but because there is a deafening silence in my corner of the car. He can’t believe it.
He cranes his neck to get a better view of his son talking animatedly on the phone from the upstairs window. Impatience is forgotten as he roars with laughter. I pretend to look at him as if he has gone bonkers, but I know he knows that I know what he’s thinking. This is the first time in perhaps 20 years that I haven’t come to my son’s rescue and come up with a million and one excuses for his complete disregard to punctuality.
Being on time has always been for my son one of those fleeting childhood thrills, like riding his bike with the front wheel up in the air. It was a wonderful thing in the beginning but as soon as the novelty wore off, he had no time (no pun intended) for the time on his wrist.
And I more than anyone know that nothing and no one can make him show up anytime, anywhere on time… but suddenly, in my head, a voice as old as time itself and one that belongs to the corniest of corny mother- in- law caricatures refuses to shut up. It gets louder and louder and goes on and on about “how his fiancé should at least have the decency to try and encourage him to not keep his parents waiting in the car by keeping him engaged on the phone” Yes, I know I am being petty but go ahead, you try telling the “voice” to put a sock in it!
And while you’re at it, try if you can to stop me from suddenly treating him and the love of his life as if they are houseguests from Mars. If they happen to be in a room on their own, I’m terrified of going anywhere near them in case of stumbling upon them doing anything other than discussing floral arrangements for the wedding with preferably a sample or two between them.
This fear is the ultimate in role reversals, making a complete mockery of the time when your 13 year old self realised with horror the Freudian drama going on in your parents’ bedrooms, in which it was your own mum who was the leading lady in this bizarre soap opera and the plot revolved around good ol’ not-so-cuddly-now dad! YUK! Actually, YUK doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface this time round when you’re faced with the fact that it is your precious boy’s turn to take centre stage.
But I will leave you with a determined look on the bright side and a promise that that there will be no remake of the Jane Fonda movie Monster In Law in this household. For, I will be welcoming my new daughter in law with open arms because I find it impossible to be seriously nasty about someone so blessed that she has won the most glittering prize in the lottery of life—my son!
Furthermore, and unbelievably so, this young woman is endowed with the magical powers that could easily prove to be the inspiration for the sequel to this article, namely “Grandmother-to- be.” And I have a funny feeling that in my dotage, that will be one roller coaster ride where no seat belts are required.
Photo credit: (c) Sharif Zu’bi, 2013.