New life
Mother's to blame
Zenga Longmore
Doesn't she have a set bedtime'?' asked my actress friend Stella last week. We were sitting cross-legged in her colour- ful basement flat, watching Omalara play peep-bo with Paddypoo, the Siamese cat. Stella's 'pash pad' is curiously reminiscent of an Aladdin's Lamp stage set, as featured at your village hall. At any moment, I expect the green and gold walls to come crashing down, revealing sag-bellied stage- hands enjoying a sneaky game of Chase the really feel that today might be my hey- day.' Black Lady.
`No, she doesn't,' I replied, ten or so minutes later.
`You mean to say your 14-month-old daughter goes to sleep at any time?'
Judging Stella's tone to be one of highest admiration, I smirked. 'Oh, yes. Two, three in the morning sometimes. It's en- tirely up to her.'
`But, poppet! Don't you think that's a teeny bit irresponsible? Well!' She paused to run a jewelled hand over Paddypoo's bony back. 'When she's 14 and has been missing for two days, and you're in a police station pleading, pleading with a hard- faced cop to find where she's run off to, don't say I didn't warn you.'
Omalara, as if in anticipation of being an unmanageable 14-year-old, pulled the cat's tail and burst into tears. I opened my mouth to defend my mothering abilities, but, as is so often the case with me, no words formed themselves.
However, I brooded on the conversation for three days. Are, I asked myself, delin- quents created because their mothers have allowed them to stay up late? Have I a potential soccer hooliganess in my midst? To block out the vision of a shaven-headed Omalara stalking the streets of Brixton waving a blood-stained Union Jack, I turned my mind to the two teenagers I have known who grew up to be proper bad 'uns. The families were completely diffe- rent, yet both sons seemed surprisingly similar. One came from a raffish, druggy family and had spent his childhood in an assortment of foster homes. The other future robber was a product of doting parents who lived in bookish Camden Town bohemia. The only common link between the two was that their mothers got the blame for the way they turned out.
`What can you expect?' the mother of the 15-year-old burglar was told. 'You should never have sent him to a compre- hensive school.' Meanwhile, the mother of the young, plug-ugly bag-snatcher was informed, 'It's all your fault for sending him to boarding school where the poor little mite was deprived of a normal family life. How could you!'
We mothers can never do right in the eyes of this unfeeling world. In the case of unspeakable fathers, the mothers still get the blame for allowing them to tyrannise the child.
Olumba, who had borne the brunt of my sour mood during the three-day brood, magnanimously agreed to take the blame for anything Omalara has ever done or will ever do.
`What's the catch?'
`No catch-catcho. You can blame me, but I'll just pass the blame on to her Chi, or guardian angel. These days a Chi has to be vigilant. But anyway, her Chi has already decided everything she's going to do.'
Oh, well. If that's the case, none of us need worry. I only hope the Chi isn't a Chelsea supporter.
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