I always lament the fact that I live in the land of two-tone shirts and veldskoene, and my daughter sings Kurt Darren…..
No matter how I try to fight it, we are in Parow country and it frightens me.
Connor now officially goes to school without shoes, which causes me emotional trauma in the morning when I drop him off. But it makes him happy. So I stare forward as I rev the car and say “goodbye, love you” and then try not to look at him as he skips off through the school gate.
In December we went to buy him new school shorts.
His school shorts are really rugby shorts, which only adds further insult to the situation.
I sent Kennith to the local school outfitter, and he picks up the shorts to check them and notices that they are, well short. Before they had a bit of length and sort of hung mid upper thigh, but now they are real-egte rugby short shorts, where if you sit with your knees-not-touching, your family trinkets might be on view, they are those kind of shorts.
Kennith queried this as he likes to get value for money, and no one is going to stint him on fabric. So he queried why these shorts were so much shorter than the usual pairs we purchase. He was told the school had asked for them to be made shorter!
Is there no dignity in the Northern Suburbs? The shorty-short answer is an inequitable, no.
Beginning of the year heralds the arrival of so many school notices and forms, that it makes your eye sight go blurry and a little forest cry at its loss.
First child, first school you eagerly wait for these notices, and fill them out meticulously. If something is unclear you take your notice, and arrive early at the school to ask the class teacher for clarity so you can fill in the form and submit it as instructed.
Two children, a few schools later, I sort of bundle the forms together, throw them into my bag, and aim to get to them within the month.
I am going through forms today and realized I have not signed up for the school committee. I see to have missed the cut off date for that, which is a pity (and a relief) – they do a great job and long may they continue (without me).
I have signed the form now, and will drop it into Connor’s school bag later tonight when he is sleeping. Then I plan to rebuke him for leaving this form in his bag for so long. He will feel bad, and take it class tomorrow and apologise to his teacher that it was his fault the form is late (well that is my cunning plan at any rate!).
There appears to have been a sports day I had no idea even took place, ah, well, will catch it next time.
I missed a meeting with my son’s teacher, clearly not a good start to the year. But I did send an extra large peach for her when they had the school fruit picnic last Friday. I am hoping that makes amends for the fact that I stood her up on the 31 January at 17h10!
There were a few other pleas and requests, that I have opted to juggle between “look at tomorrow” and “throw into the black plastic dustbin right now.”
I have signed Georgia up for karate, I have contacted a company about coming to cost on wooden blinds or wooden shutters (not school related, but it was lost in the paperwork). I have read the after care notice, and I have jotted down my son’s extra mural schedule,the day seems to be quite fruitful at the moment.
Then a notice caught my eye.
It was an invitation for my child to join Die Voortrekkers. You can’t make this stuff up.
The problem is the notice is in Afrikaans. Immediately that forces me to actually read through it, instead of just glancing through it rather flippantly.
I like the opening statement – it is a definite call to action: “Beste maat. Will jy graag lekker saam met ons gaan kamp, oor die kole stokbrood en boerewors braai en hope pret hê?”
Now how can you turn an invitation like that down?
It went on to say that “ons is mos trotse Afrikaners!” and then it referred to someone called “Pappa en Mamma” which I can only assume denotes Kennith and I.
I liked the closing line: “Onthou net, spyt kom te laat, kom kyk wat ons doen en besluit self of jy daarvan hou!!”
I am almost motivated to go and have a look-see, because I am so curious, but it is on a Friday afternoon which is not going to work for me, even with the best will in the world.
So my son is wearing shorty shorts and being propositioned by the Voortrekkers in a bid for him to join their ranks.
I am not sure if I should laugh because it is so funny, or sit in a heap and cry because this is our life and we are those people now.
I recall having a Bishops application form lying around here somewhere that I really need to look in to again ……