Let's just face the facts, we all suck at something

In the lottery we call child-rearing, we can agree that none of us know what we're doing. There are only two things I'm certain about. One: it's a bad idea to leave Domestos on the lowest shelf in the house. Two: play-sparring with a four-year-old without crotch protection ends in tears - for you.

Ntobeko, my first-born, is in his final year of varsity this year, assuming that his brand of #FeesMustFall-ing doesn't involve burning down the EG Malherbe library.

When he was in Grade 10 "we" had to decide what subjects he would take in Grade 11. My advice was "Choose the subjects you're really strong in", a near impossibility seeing as he kinda got As for everything.

It was rubbish advice, of course. I did, however, redeem myself later, when it was time to choose which degree to pursue: "Go for the course that you know you'll enjoy the most".

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In my defence, it wasn't my fault. The culpable parties were a pair of double-chinned PhD types, Buckingham and Clifton. Their book, Now, Discover Your Strengths, had been shoved down my throat during a training course while I was still a profit-generating implement at Unilever.

The basic tenet is focus on what you're good at and stop worrying about what you suck at.

On the whole, I agree with the four chins. Even with the younger midgets, I enforce this strength gospel. I've even quoted the book where it speaks about Tiger Woods.

Apparently, before he went full tiger and started hunting cocktail waitresses, he was golf world number one but was only number 61 on the PGA Tour at executing bunker shots. So what did the tiger do? He all but ignored that part of his game and focused on what he was really good at, his tee shot.

Sometimes, that's what distinguishes adults from kids and Obama from Trump: the maturity to gracefully stay in your lane.

If Trump knew this he wouldn't have embarrassed himself by proclaiming that he has "a great temperament". Bompie Jantjie, the world-renowned interpreter, wouldn't have told us to roll a joint and stuff it in our balls for fun at Madiba's memorial service. The @MyANC Twitter account would give hashtags a wide berth until they found a professional.

So, now and then, my kids and I confess to all the things that (to use their phrase) we're quite "sucky" at. Not every day, see. Every day I encourage them. But now and then, for their own good, we sit around and have a good laugh about what they're bad at.

The nine-year-old has never figured out why shoes have shoelaces. The 12-year-old couldn't hit the toilet bowl if you placed an "X" smack bang in the middle. The 22-year-old could not hold a note if you promised him a lap dance from Shakira. Mrs N holds a master's degree in chemistry but can't spell any word with more than two vowels.

block_quotes_start I'm totally sucky at any activity that requires me to listen to anyone speak for longer than 20 minutes block_quotes_end

I wish I was immune to imperfections but tragically ...

I'm totally sucky at any activity that requires me to listen to anyone speak for longer than 20 minutes. I'm embarrassed to say that about 17 minutes and 49 seconds into Rabbi Michael Lerner's rousing speech at Muhammad Ali's funeral, I switched over to MasterChef Australia, just to see something else.

And this is why I am such a poor excuse for a Catholic. Twenty minutes in the house of the Lord and my thoughts wander towards the inane arbitrariness that occupies the sewer I call my mind. And then I start wondering where the nearest drinking hole is. Staying on the good side of the Almighty is truly thirst-inducing business.

What else am I sucky at? Oh, ja. Anything remotely related to manual labour. A few days ago I had a tyre puncture. But I just couldn't loosen the nuts. I cursed the Tiger Wheel & Tyre blokes who had fastened them using those electronic spanners. All of this is happening in front of Mrs N and I can see all future conjugal rights dissipating in front of my very own eyes.

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Finally, in desperation, I call one of my neighbours, a mechanic. Gerhard gets there, asks me to show him what I am doing. In the voice you use when you find someone pushing with all their might against a door marked "Pull", he says, "How do you open a tap?". It turns out I was "loosening" the nuts clockwise.

What else am I kak at? Ah! Debate. I approach debate with the same intentions as "The Beast" Mtawarira does a scrum. I get involved to impose my will on my victim and dazzle them with the sheer "brilliance" of my insights. It's especially intense when I realise 30 seconds into the debate that my opponent has far superior facts to back up their arguments than the drivel in my arsenal. I call my debating style The Battering Ram.

But people respect my debating skill nonetheless. They have even been known to opt out of debates I'm involved in, just to allow me even more space to impress the remaining victims.

We all have our weaknesses. It's time to 'fess up and own them. A few weeks ago my 12-year-old saw me walking purposefully with a pair of pliers in my hand. He remarked demurely, "I wonder who he's trying to impress?"

Follow the author of this article, Ndumiso Ngcobo, on Twitter: @NdumisoNgcobo