This is how it ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper. After five children, our youngest has just started to write her matric finals. And whereas of course we care, there’s a sense that it’s only muscle memory that has us nag her to work, and that we’re more stressed in theory than we are in practice. It’s as if we really want to be anxious about matric, but just can’t seem to modify the behaviour.
Luckily for us, there have never been parent’s prize giving ceremonies at the end of each year. Because we would never have bagged a thing. Not one certificate. Not for making sure that our children showed up to school, not for signing and checking homework, and not even for WhatsApp group participation. We wouldn’t even have achieved recognition as being the most improved parents. And after five children at school for 12 years, that’s shoddy.
In all the years, not once was my wife class mom. Not once was I asked to tone down my support on the side of the soccer field. And many a time I would forget not only who taught our children, but what grade they were in. In my defence, they do change years at a remarkable pace.
I also found parents evening to be one of the most painful and unbearable experiences. On more than one occasion when the teacher mistook us for my brother and sister-in-law and reported back on a nephew instead of our child, we never corrected them, allowing us to feel like normal adult parents for that short time. We would leave the table inspired and content and for once, not with a list of assignments that one of our broods hadn’t bothered to hand in.
Our approach might be slightly unconventional, but it comes from somewhere. When our eldest son was in Grade 5, we left him with my mother-in-law for a few days. She promised to do his homework with him and keep an eye on things. On our return, we were asked to sign an Afrikaans test that he had failed miserably.
“What happened?” we asked, horrified (we were still young). “Bobba said that I don’t need to learn for it! She said I’ll never go and see a circus in Afrikaans.” I don’t often agree with her, but in this case, it was hard to fault bobba’s logic.
We’ve been told that it’s a sad day when one’s youngest finishes school. Whereas I’m sure that for some that might be the case, the thought of never having to sit through a very serious Grade 1 orientation, or never having to feel like we have failed parenting because we forgot a child at school (again) or because we had no idea when school goes back after the holidays, isn’t something that I will miss.
I won’t miss the nursery school plays that are adorable for the first 20 minutes, tolerable for the next 20, and torturous for the last 20, or urgent meetings with justifiably exasperated educators who care for our children as much as we do.
But that doesn’t mean that I’m not grateful. Our children have had the privilege of being schooled in an environment that’s bursting with love, with people who are passionate about education and who would do anything to make sure that they are equipped to travel the road ahead.
To all those who have educated – or at least tried to educate – our children, I say thank you. And sorry, we won’t do better next year.
