NDUMISO NGCOBO | Never, and never again, will I have to do duty as dad’s taxi

This column is dedicated to all the heroes and heroines whose last-born children have just finished writing their matric exams.

For my wife and me, this past Tuesday will forever be etched in our memories as a major life-journey milestone. At 11.17am, our last-born walked through the turnstile of Ashton International College Benoni for the very last time, after writing his final matric paper. I whipped out my phone and recorded him making his historic walk to freedom. I’ll admit there was a lump in my throat, but I’d ordered my tear ducts to behave during my drive there.

Whew — my final pick-up. What an arduous journey it has been! I remember my first school drop-off, at Roselle Pre-Primary in Pinetown in January 1998, like it was yesterday. The principal, Auntie Sharon, and my first-born’s grade R teacher, Auntie Rennet, were waiting at the school entrance and then disappeared with him into the building. I remember his school bag being larger than his back.

All in all, child-rearing has been an emotional, but often rewarding, rollercoaster

This scene would repeat itself three more times. The path travelled has taken a total of 27 years, like that of the world’s most adored political prisoner. As I exited the Ashton parking lot, I stifled the urge to adopt a husky drawl and declare, “Never, and never again, shall it be that … ”

I would like parents in my shoes to join me as I chant, “Never, and never again, shall it be” in Madiba’s distinctive voice. Never, and never again, shall it be that we stand there yelling at a six-year-old aspiring Samwu career toyi-toyist obstinately refusing to finish the bowl of Coco Pops he filled up to the brim despite repeated warnings he had taken too much. Never, and never again, shall we stand there at 7.13am waiting for an inconsiderate teenager brushing his teeth as if he were auditioning for a Colgate advert, oblivious of the crucial 7am departure time to avoid the N12 7.10am traffic surge.

Never, and never again, shall we be subjected to interminable parent-teacher meetings in a grade R classroom, all of us seated on chairs and desks designed for five-year-olds, 6′5″ fathers’ knees jutting out like the hind legs of praying mantises. You are forced to sit there uncomfortably listening to the teacher your five-year-old has told you is called “The Flying Witch” because of her last name, Broomsfield — a moniker all the more appropriate given her mane of dishevelled red hair. So she stands there talking to adults in a tone suggesting it is they who are grade Rs: “And remember, mommies and daddies, rubbers are meant to be used only when your children write in pencil.” These words are included in the speech just in case some of you got to be 43 without knowing about pencils and rubbers.

Never, and never again, will this absent-minded columnist arrive home at 6.15pm only to be asked where the child is — at which point he will suddenly remember the 5pm pick-up after tennis practice, and then see the 54 missed calls from an irate teacher. He will then have to do a walk of shame to the security hut where all the abandoned children are gathered together like ugly SPCA puppies waiting for their forever homes. You will doubtless get the silent treatment on the return journey and later hear him ask his mother, “Mom, am I adopted?”

It would be remiss of me if I did not acknowledge that not even a tenth of the journey has been negative. All in all, child-rearing has been an emotional, but often rewarding, rollercoaster. What could beat watching your kid butchering The Greatest Love Of All in a school play, the whole class off-key because The Flying Witch is tone deaf, with all the smartphones capturing every moment of the glorious mess? Who could avoid swelling with pride when his Coco Pops milk savage picked up no fewer than four top-of-his-grade academic awards? Indeed, at that point I had to stifle the urge to stand up and shout, “He gets those genes from me!”

If, dear reader, you’re a parent about to pack your first-born off to grade R, good luck for the next 13 years. As for this columnist, he is going to be submitting a sample to his urologist to make sure the pipes are still securely tied — because, Lord knows, I am definitely not going through all this again.