A mother is bowled out
I received this contribution from a friend who is a teacher at a local school and mother of three and reprint it here with her permission. (For international readers: “forty days” is forty days before the final school exams start)
Bowled clean.
Debbie Kampherbeek
Yesterday the matrics had their ‘forty days’.
Forty days to what, I don’t know. Anyway, they didn’t go to school, but slept late and then congregated at some park to braai, chat and drink. And drink some more.
For the past week, I’ve spent a lot of my valuable lecturing time, to remind them that they are precious to their parents, that they should not drink and drive, that the exams are nearing. All of which were met by laughter and quips. There was a lot more that I wanted to add, but didn’t, as I know they would have laughed off my ‘sermon’.
I have a fairly good idea what happens at their parties, as I’ve raised three boys and hear a lot in my class when they think and I pretend I don’t listen.
Perhaps I shouldn’t care so much, but I do. And this year it is worse, as I my youngest is one of my matric pupils.
My youngest, you should know, is fun-loving, the heart and soul of many a party. He does things his own way, is an out of the box thinker – which is not a very popular commodity in state schools. He was therefore often in trouble.
So it was with trepidation that I waited for the day to pass yesterday. He had informed me two days ago, that they wouldn’t come home before the following morning, and I should not worry. I should not worry! Fat chance!
I had to control myself not to phone him every second hour, just to hear if he is ok (read: sober), if he is enjoying himself (read: sober). Eventually I resorted to prayers, self-motivation, call my friends, and pray some more. The day passed oh so slowly. I invited friends over for supper, to get my mind off my worries. The newspapers are filled with stories of matriculants who die on the roads, children being killed, fights ….
At nine o’clock, while we were just have just having our pudding, my phone rang. It was my son. I was so panic stricken, I couldn’t press the famous green button.
“Mom…”
“Are you ok? Are you in jail? What happened?”
“Mom, could you please open the inside gate for me, I am turning into our street now.”
In walked my son, my stone sober son, with a huge smile on his face to come and greet the guests.
“I got tired of the party and wanted to come home. Is there some food left?”
I was out for a duck.