Mother.

"Tah Dah!" My Mother stands triumphantly in front of me all jewels and lavish evening gown and enormous hair. She has her arms out like she's at the end of the catwalk doing a turn in our own special 1950's style fashion show.

I am seven and I am the baby of the family. I will always be my Mother's baby.
I'm lying on my stomach in my mini sleeping bag in flannellette pyjamas, and am twisting my head, previously aimed at the TV, to take her all in. She's a mess.
Not in a big way. Just the details.
I say, "Mummy, you can't wear that dress with those earrings and those shoes."
She says, "Oh why, whats the matter?" Her look of triumph draining from her shiny face.
I say very matter of factly, "The earrings clash with the flowers in the dress and you're wearing silver shoes which clash with your gold watch and the gold in dress."
She says with a hint of annoyance, "Oh, well what do you think I should do then?"
I say in a compassionate, sing song-y, yet 'only to be used on the dim' kind of way, "Why don't you wear your gold dancing slippers and the green flower earrings and the bag with the gold crystals all over it?"
She says in her most frustrated tone, "Oh but the earrings take forever to put up and I wore the gold slippers last week!" Sometimes its hard to remember who the child is! Did she just stamp her foot? No, not quite. Almost.
"But the dress and everything else are different aren't they? No one is going to be looking at your feet and it won't take long to pin in the earrings," I say finally, in my most Motherly tone. She still looks like she needs convincing.

Her floral earrings are my absolute favourite.
Branches of leaves and green and gold flowers with green crystals and tiny gold balls picking out the centres of the flowers; the petals and leaves in pale and dark green enamel edged in gold. On one earring, the branch rises up past the top of the ear and is secured in the hair and then falls almost to the collarbone in a drop. Its about ten inches long in total. The other earring fills the ear with flowers and then falls almost to the collarbone as well. They live in a green faille covered box lined in black velvet.
They are Fabulous with a capital F!!

The cogs of my Mother's brain suddenly click her into action and she leaves the sitting room pulling off the wrong earrings with one hand and slipping her left foot out of the clashing silver sandals with the other. She returns with a long flat box and the right gold slippers, and sits on the chair beside me. I am already out of my sleeping bag and helping to guide her foot into the left gold shoe.
She smells of floral perfume that you could only describe as heady and Lanoline that covers her face which shines like a new penny. She doesn't like make up and her only beauty products are the Lanoline that keeps her skin soft but initially greasy, deep red lipstick that defines her full mouth within her coffee coloured, high cheek boned face and black mascara that make her eyes sparkle like lakes in the moonlight.
She slips on the right hand shoe that I'm holding down for her as, hair pin in her mouth she secures the top branch of her earring into her french bun with another. She uses the last pin to firmly secure the branch in a second place and then clips the opposite earring on her other ear, the falling branches swinging back and forward grazing her neck. She looks like the exotic lady in a velvet painting my uncle has on his living room wall. Or Nefertiti.

She races from the room returning minutes later with a white crystal bag and a black clutch.
"Ok which one?"
"Neither." I say rolling my eyes. "You have to take the green crystal one."
"Which green crystal one?"
I get up and run into her room which smells of the same floral perfume mixed with Johnsons baby powder and Lanoline and other assorted florals. Its almost intoxicating. There are flowers everywhere; plastic ones hanging in leis over pictures, smoky crystal ones on perfume bottles, the wallpaper, even the old worn carpet is a bed of roses. Even her wardrobe smells floral. I climb onto her dressing table chair and look through the assortment of bags she has on the top shelf of the wardrobe.
"Make sure you put those back," she says as I start pulling down each bag until I finally get what I'm looking for. I hold it out to her like a jewelled offering to a queen. She looks at it as if she has never seen it before.
I remember almost everything in her wardrobe, from her bags and shoes to her Mink wrap and Fox fur coat. (Its not really fox, I think its rabbit or possum made to look like fox but its fabulous too!)
"That one? Are you sure? I've never worn that with this dress before." She takes it from me looking sceptically at the green crystal bag with flecks of gold at the edges.
She stands in front of the enormous mirror, the bag in front of her dress.
Its perfect.
"Its perfect!"
I know.
She stands turning this way and that, checking her hair, removing invisible bits of fluff from her dress and holding the bag on her wrist out to one side like a temple heiroglyph from ancient Egypt. She's a mass of colour and movement. It all works. She's all florally, shimmery and crystal encrusted. Fabulous!! Perfect!
Now I can go back to 'Saturday Night Disney' and 'Herbie the Love Bug.'
As I'm settling back in my sleeping bag, getting comfortable, she comes in again and does her final twirl.
"Alright?" She asks again.
"Beautiful," I say. My work here is done.
I am now transfixed by the TV as she bends down and making sure not to smudge her lipstick kisses an air kiss next to my ear and holds my face to her greasy floral cheek.
"Night darling. Don't stay up past your bedtime and listen to Aunty Phyllis when she says go to bed, go to bed. Ok" I kiss her cheek sideways getting lanolin on the corner of my mouth. It tastes kind of soapy. Gross!
"Ok" I say using my the shoulder of my pyjama top to wipe the lanolin off my cheek.
And she's gone. Off to a Social. Or a ball. Or anywhere there is a band and dancing.
The floral cloud sits in gusts all around me for at least the next half hour.
I'm pleased that another fashion disaster has been averted and my Mother hasn't gone out looking like a very glamourous bag lady who got dressed in the dark!

I don't remember falling asleep. My Aunty Phyllis has carried me to my bed while I've slept. I wake to the sound of voices. Its my Mum and Aunty Phyllis laughing and talking in the kitchen. I tiptoe out and they sit there in their bathrobes. My Mum still with her hair up and remains of make up from the night before, cup of tea in hand. Aunty Phyllis pouring another cup, looking like a crazy woman, her hair not picking a direction.
"Morning sleepy head," my mum says as I kiss her and Aunty Phyllis hello.
Theres a plate of cakes sitting in the middle of the table covered by a serviette. They're for me. Pre-empting my request, my Mother says, "You can have some after you have your cornflakes."

I'm spoilt but in a nice way. My Mother always brings home cakes from the socials or balls that she goes to, and being Samoan shes quite keen on an assortment. The best ones come from the socials organised by the clubs that Mum belongs too. Like the Samoan Pioneers Social Club. Everyone bakes cakes and takes their delicious offerings along. For some, its a point of prestige to bake the most delicious cakes. My Mother usually makes pineapple pie. Its one of the dishes she makes really well. Its easy and doesn't need perfect mixing like a sponge.
It consists of sweet short crust pastry baked then sprinkled with pineapple chunks and covered in custard and is what gastronomic dreams are made of. To me its the perfect dish. Sweet with tart, creamy and flaky, multi- textured: sublime. If mum is being particularly posh she makes a sweet soft meringue to go on top and yet another delicious texture is added.
Sometimes I wonder how she gets them into her tiny clutch purses. Its always like a mini buffet for us the day after. I think its a polynesian thing; being able to carry as much food as possible away from the table in the smallest possible package and still look elegant.
This morning all the cakes are being cut into three pieces to include Aunty Phyllis.
I love Aunty Phyllis. She doesn't have a sweet tooth, so she has a tiny piece of pineapple pie and pushes the rest at me. Told you I was spoilt. Spoilt in a nice way. Spoilt but polite.
I say, "Aunty Phyllis? May I have the rest of your pineapple pie, please?" I nearly always may.
"Yes, you may." I have been trained well.

I knew how to use my knife and fork by the time I was four. I say 'please' and 'thankyou' with every request and for everything I receive. I got smacked if I didn't and I didn't like getting smacked so I learnt fast. A raised hand was all I needed. That meant I was close. How close? This close! That was close enough.
My nephew says my parents told him I was the perfect child, usually in reference to him not being so. I am. I was. Terrified.
Scared of my own shadow. Scared of being bad. Naughty.
I'm scared of the dark. Scary movies. Being left alone. Strangers. Creepy crawlies. Change. Anything I don't know.
I never got dirty. Ever.
I'd scream if I ever got any dirt on me. Eventually I worked out dirt wouldn't hurt me but for most of my early childhood I keep as far away from it as possible. Yukky!
"What do you do at school each day?" It was my Mother holding up my clothes to be washed. They're spotless.
"Huh?" I'm engrossed in 'Bugs Bunny'.
"Don't you play any sport at playtime? Your clothes are never dirty." She mumbles this last sentence to herself. She sounds disappointed. I hate disappointing her!
"Yeah, I play sport," I lie. Usually I sit with the girls and talk crap. Crap about boys. Crap about TV. Crap about stuff I've overheard.
"Well you never seem to get dirty," she half mumbles, half questions this again.
"We play on the tar seal so there is no dirt," I lie again. More Crap!
"Oh ok," she sounds relieved and leaves me to Bugs. I determine to get dirty next time I'm at school.

Ooooh, its gross! I have just finished school and both my hands are in a muddy puddle on the side of the playing field. My firiends are looking at me like I'm weird. Gee, whats new!
Its cold and wet and dirty. Yuk!
I rub my shirt and shorts with my dirty hands. Most of the dirt falls off but leaves some very decent stains. They dry perfectly on the bus home.
When I walk in my Mother almost gleefully says, "Oh my goodness! What a mess!" I know its Gross! Isn't it!?
"Sorry, I got pushed over." I put my best deflated pout on my face. Its face setting number two. Sad.
She's wrapped. I clean up and she makes me peanut butter sandwiches. She hums to herself. She hasn't noticed I am spotlessly clean everywhere else and that there is not a skerrick dirt on my shoes.
They are pristine. Perfect.
But she is happy. Thats the main thing. She goes back to her delusions.
That her baby, the baby of the family, is normal.
Boys get dirty. Thats the rule.
I told you I learn stuff quickly.