The Boss of Me (BOM) recently needed to spend quite a bit of time at my folks' homestead in the Valley of a Thousand Hills. Ordinarily, we sleep in an outside cottage when we're visiting. However, seeing as she was alone, she opted to stay in the main house.
Upon hearing her plans, the several voices inside my spacious cranium convened a hasty conference to debate whether to tell her or not. The unanimous conference resolution was to let her find out on her own.
She called me at about 8am the following morning: "Mama woke me up before 7am to tell me that the porridge was ready." Because I had anticipated the call, tears and snot were already flowing down my face like Victoria Falls.
You see, in the 47 years that I have known my mother, she wakes up every morning, just after 6am, and prepares soft maize meal porridge. My childhood mornings are a white blur of porridge. I have had maize meal porridge with everything under the Lord's sun.
Porridge with milk. Porridge with Rama margarine. Porridge with Rama and Nespray powdered milk. Porridge with Lecol lemon concentrate. Porridge with strawberry Nesquik powder. Porridge sprinkled with Pro-Nutro. Heck, I once accidentally spilt Aromat into my porridge. I just shrugged, continued stirring and enjoyed my Aro-porridge.
Porridge was such an integral part of my childhood mornings that my elder brother, Mazwi, and I even had a private joke whenever our mom and dad sat in the dining room with our last-born toddler brother, calling them Papa Bear, Mama Bear and Baby Bear.
It should therefore not surprise anyone that I have not touched the stuff in almost 30 years. And yet, to this day, whenever I enter my mother's kitchen, she announces matter-of-factly, "The porridge is ready. Please dish up."
About 20 years ago I would protest, "But Mama, you know I don't eat porridge!", to which she would scoff , "Don't be silly, you love porridge!" Nowadays, I just nod and make myself eggs and pork sausages, the cornerstone of any self-respecting functional alcoholic's breakfast.
I'm totally empathetic to the porridge pusher who gave birth to me
I'm totally empathetic to the porridge pusher who gave birth to me. And I love her for it. Parenthood is a complex mind job. You conceive these little bundles of joy, innocence and nappy rash, get to know them intimately, learn their little quirks, personalities, preferences, what they love and what they hate. Fast-forward about 17 years and they morph into unrecognisable, independent forms of life.
I have been saying for a while that I'm at that age now when I'm subconsciously mutating into my parents. The other day I was at the Spar when I walked by the snack aisle and decided to grab a few packets for the snack monsters congregated under my roof for the July holidays.
When I arrived home I triumphantly announced, "The greatest dad in the world comes bearing snacks! Come feast oh ye ravenous munchkins!" The 11-year-old lastborn took one look at the packets, rolled his eyes deep into his skull and said, "Ghost Pops? Really? NikNaks? Really, dude!" I was shattered! "B-b-but they're your favourites!", I protested weakly. "Yah, when I was like three!"
It's like I don't know who they are anymore. We named our number two, the 14-year-old, Radio Vumvum some years ago because of his motormouth tendencies. This child would follow you around the house for hours on end, a stream of words tumbling out of his mouth faster than Busta Rhymes's raps. No response from you was necessary. In fact, the quieter you were, the more space for him to tell you stories. He was Picasso and you his canvas.
I drove home alone with him in the traffic for about 45 minutes during a recent Kearsney excursion to Pridwin and St Stithians. About half an hour into the drive I became aware of a strange sensation: absolute silence. When I arrived home, I remarked to the BOM that he seemed withdrawn. She looked at me like I was crazy; "The boy has been a lot quieter for almost two years now. Radio Vumvum is gone."
This parenting thing is truly a mystery wrapped up in a riddle. But it is also the most fulfilling journey I have ever embarked upon. I often fantasise about the day the lastborn graduates from university, hopefully about 10 years from now. I'll buy dozens of packets of Ghost Pops and NikNaks for him.
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