LONDON - She held her child against her to protect it from the cold. It was not a graceful pose. She stumbled as she walked, bowed down by its weight. This was not her natural element. She needed to be alone for her body to show any grace. Diving into deep waters or feeling the sun on her toes. But her child was not yet old enough for her to leave. So she balanced it on her feet and plodded on, swaying from side to side as part of her solitary devotion.
The other mother looked too dull to be anything but reliable, but her children did not concern her. No sooner had she dropped them off with the nearest man, than she'd be off, swimming free, looking for the next neighbourhood charmer. Poor bloke was left in his stagnant cul-de-sac, rearing his brood on tales of wild open spaces. But soon he learned the ways of these flighty females and got his own back. He impregnated all sorts of women, no matter the social class, and kept their various offspring as one big family: his own.
A third woman expressed her motherhood vocally. She had just one variant on the raucous monotone with which she made demands of her partner all year through. This was a loud gargle, which she only performed during sexual intercourse and while feeding her children. The strangled noise may have driven the neighbours demented, but it created a bond between sex and child-rearing that was strong enough to unite her family for life. They rebuilt their home in the same place time and again, claiming the old oak tree as their own despite the natural and man-made disasters that besieged it.
And what of she who takes this one step further and has her children as her food? Her body heat becomes her children. It becomes them well, as they lie squashed under her, blind and pink with blue veins showing. She'll grab anything she can at night from passers by, and shred it into bedding with her sharp teeth. The children are buried in the heap, still alive, but smelly. But even if the filth appalls, you must not go near. At the first sign of danger, she will eat her children, to protect them and to fuel herself for the long journey ahead, through the desert, like a rat.
And what of you, woman? Are you the nurturer - the penguin who could be gracefully swimming but instead hobbles to protect her child from the ice? Or are you the crow who cares even less for appearances, but will kick and scream to keep her family together for generations? Maybe you have succumbed to the stickleback fish, which leaves child-rearing to the gaudy male. Or are you domesticated - a cuddly gerbil, who looks so sweet, but can kill her own children in a fit of savage practicality? We all have our instincts and they are strong.
We know for sure how our mothers were to us: every grievance and act of love was noted for action replay, decades later. But we will not know how we are as mothers until our children have struggled to free themselves of our care, and created a new generation for themselves. By that we will be defined. But be prepared. Watch nature documentaries. Buy a goldfish bowl and a gerbil cage. Go strolling through the woods and learn a little of human types from the timeless metaphors of mother nature.
Introducing CRUNCH-TIME, a new regular feature, Wally WORTS ON SPORTS. We think this one is going to be a hit!
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