At this time of year, in honour of
Nelson Mandela’s birthday, we get our boys at St Alban’s College to write
(very) short stories. They may use only one word for every year of Madiba’s life.
So this year it’s 94-word stories. Here are a few of mine, to recount the week.
Splash
Thursday. It’s dark. Cold. Early. Snooze
button… Snooze button… Snooze button.
‘Ha-yo Mama! Ha-yo Dad! Ha-yo Woof!’
Rock paper scissors. Ok. Denial loses to
Scott. Kettle. Rusks. Milk. Plunge. Back to the duvet. The bed population has
risen to four. Bleary snuggling. Giggling. Elbowing.
‘Ha-yo Nanna?’
Scott is conducting a pretend-pretend
phone call on my lap. Hmm… Irresponsible? Probably. Another sip to contemplate.
‘Bye!’
Dunk. Not the rusk. The phone.
Gasping mayhem. Hasty dismantling. Dripping
coffee. Speechless. Phoneless.
I’m thinking, don’t store up treasures
here on earth, where toddlers can cause irreversible water damage.
Perfect
Cameron lost his spark. And 2kg. Malaria?
Pale-brave boy: ‘Why must they stick a needle in my skin?’ Sad-sore tears at
the jab which made him jerk which made it hurt which brought more sad-sore
tears.
Positively, the test was negative.
But we couldn’t find his spark. Or his appetite.
Or his manners.
Re-examining, Dr Davie prattled gently, ‘Blood
results perfect… full blood count… checked the this and the that levels…
no indication of big-Latin-word… everything
perfect.’
The spark flashed in the brave eyes and hovered
on his smile.
‘Mom! My blood is perfect!’
Delicate
Sometimes you need to relax. Fight
sexism another day. Just bask in the fragile femininity attributed to you by
your sons.
It’s post-bath post-supper Milo-milk Dad-time.
Cam is restless and eager. Scott is smooching my cheeks and climbing on my
head. We’ve read about eleven books.
‘When is Dad coming home?’
‘Soon… Let’s read another story.’
‘But I want to rof with Dad!’
‘Ok… Well, he’s coming now-now. You can rof with me if you like?’
‘No!’ He’s even bleaker now – accusatory
– tears threatening. ‘We can’t rof with
you because you are too delicate!’
Cute
Once upon a time, there was a tiny
blonde boy with dangerously high cuteness levels.
In a hospital emergency room – his
brother needed blood tests – he broke records for preventing the highest number
of medical staff from helping the wounded and dying. They blew up nurses’
gloves for him. They said ‘Ag siestog!’ and ‘Ai wena!’ and drooled. He gleefully
ran amok.
He did magnificently cute things all his
waking moments. His mom stored them in her heart and sometimes on YouTube.
The Cuteness Police never could arrest
him: he was covered in God-prints.
Parents
It’s Form 4 Parents’ Evening. The soup
smells good. I’m ready with my iPad and my lipstick and my opinions.
Mom after mom sits across from me. They don’t
care about English marks. Not really. They want to talk about their boys. Talk
and talk. They say it gets harder and harder, having sons. And love and worry gush
mingled with nervous laughter, hope, and something asking me to tell them
everything will be ok.
Two little boys are home in bed and I’m
praying: O, for strong soft hearts when they are seventeen…
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