Picture-Perfect Family & Other Stories

Growing up, we had a picture-perfect family—the one with a mom, a dad, and the children. That’s mom, dad, my little brother, and me. Except, we did call mom and dad by their first names. Parenting experts would, of course, argue that because of that little fact, we could not be considered picture-perfect, but hey, it’s not a written rule. So, growing up, we had a picture-perfect family.

We even had a framed family photo hanging in the living room, and everybody that walked in could see that we were indeed picture-perfect. Dad stood at 6 ft 2, with a big, happy smile and his arm hanging over Mom’s shoulder. Mom looked up at Dad, holding my hand in hers, while I held my little brother’s hand. We stood there like a declining bar graph.

Below the family photo was a wooden cabinet where we displayed our trophies, certificates, medals, and all sorts of achievements. Despite the crooked lines, scribbling, and hearts coloured in green, even our handmade cards contributed to these 'achievements'. We were proud of our art, and so were our parents. Inside the cabinet was something so sacred that the doors remained locked—something so sacred that it was only used once a year: Tupperware.

So, picture-perfect: even at the dinner table, Dad would sit at the head of the table. First, a little dish with warm water was brought for Dad to wash his hands, followed by a dry tablecloth to dry them. It always bothered me that we had to wash our hands before eating, and that the water was brought to Dad. His food would always be delivered first, on a shining tray. Our food would then follow, usually accompanied by comments like, "Let me see those hands, did you wash your hands?" or "Oh, so help me God if you two don’t eat your veggies..." It was really difficult to enjoy our meals when they came with threats.

The one-seater sofa was reserved solely for the head of the family, Dad. Resting on the arm support was the TV remote, which he guarded with utmost care. We'd gather around to watch the news and catch some sports highlights. Then, it was Mom's turn to indulge in her soap operas, featuring plenty of kissing and making out scenes that prompted us to discreetly look away whenever Brooke Logan and Ridge Forrester were at it. On weekends we could watch all our favourite cartoons on SABC: Curious George, Kids Next Door and The Cramp Twins.

So picture-perfect that we'd be tucked into bed and even allowed to sleep with the lights on because we were both afraid of the dark.

Our lunch boxes were always meticulously packed; Mom made sure to check off all the necessary vitamins and nutrients on the list. However, my body rejected some, and Dylan was always happy to take the red apple I struggled to swallow off my plate.

So picture-perfect, when Mrs. Viljoen asked us to draw our families, I knew exactly what to sketch: four very happy figures standing in front of a crooked house. One very tall one, one tall one, and two very short figures. That's Dad, Mom, my brother, and me, a declining bar graph, just like in our family picture. We never had a pet, but I drew it regardless. On the very top right corner, I'd add my sunlight, shining so bright. And then millions of straight blue lines, that’s the rain. Mrs. Viljoen would comment, “Wooo, I see the monkeys are getting married,” which always went over my head. I never understood why Donovan’s family picture was missing a very tall figure, his dad, or why he would say that his mom was both his mom and dad.

We’d visit Gran’s house on occasion, the one with the outside toilet. It was always a great reunion amongst my cousins and me. In fact, we all came from picture-perfect families. All dropped off by our parents and left with pocket money to spend. We wore Jabaroo, Quicksilver, and I think the deal breaker for Gran was little Yaya’s size 4 Nikes. She picked up the phone and called Yaya’s mom immediately,

“Nike? What does Yaya know about Nike? I promise you that tomorrow, not next month or next year but tomorrow they won’t fit and you would’ve wasted all of this money! Yerrr, ya’ll are spoiling these kids.”

As strict as she was, Gran still tried her best to accommodate us. After 12, we were allowed to turn the radio off and finally watch the TV with its rightful volume. Gran wouldn’t let us watch wrestling. The last time we watched wrestling, she walked in on an ongoing fight between Rey Mysterio and John Cena, right in the bedroom. Theo was the referee, I was John Cena, and Yaya was Rey Mysterio.

Theo counted, “One. Two. Thr…”

“Hai Voetsek,” Gran interrupted, just like Mr. Vince McMahon would usually interrupt fights on Smackdown.

“Wrestling, in my house? Over My Dead Body.” (When Gran did pass, we freely watched wrestling.)

Later on, all four of us would watch The 3 Ninjas on e-TV, and Gran, who supposedly hated violence, would be shouting at the top of her voice:

“Yes Tum Tum. Yes Tum Tum, kick him, kick him, kick him!”

When the time came for us to part ways, emotions ran high, especially if you were the last cousin waiting to be picked up.

It wasn’t long until my idea of picture-perfect changed, until I understood why Donovan was missing a very tall figure in his family picture drawing. Until I grasped what he meant when he said his mommy was both his mom and dad.

I remember being picked up by a white truck at school, and it had what seemed to be some of our furniture in the back. Dad’s one-seater sofa wasn’t there. Mom hopped out of the truck and invited me in. I asked no questions; I guess I was excited about being picked up in a truck. It was a wonderful opportunity; I’d never been in a truck before, and Dylan hyped me up. He thought it was 'bad ass' that I got picked up in a truck.

That framed family photo that used to hang in our living room? I never saw it again. We were now in Gran’s house, and she called the shots.