Man’s definition of success is based on things he wanted to provide for his children because he never had the same opportunity. One of them was to allow each of his kids the freedom to choose whatever they want to be or study what they want without having to worry about the fees required. The second was being in a position to buy each of them a car.

Both my kids are studying, one of them is doing something in finance, the other wants to become a math teacher. I have to admit I was a little disappointed because I was hoping for a lawyer and a doctor because you never know when you would need one of those. And I have always wanted to travel through Europe with someone else paying for the trip. Being the father I reckon I would have been able to negotiate some kind of family discount.

Back to the car/s.

Getting one for the Dude was easy. He got his car when he turned 18 because just like Man, Dude is male. Males like cars and shit and is generally assumed they can drive when they start to walk. Relax ladies, I said assumed, I never said for it to be true. Jeez. It is also easier to let your son, who is built like a rugby player, leave the house and venture off alone into the unknown and drive himself to varsity.

I came up with a million and one excuses for not returning the favor for Princess. She did not get a car when she turned eighteen. After a year my excuses dried up like my mouth every time Wife uses my full name. She came home after her first semester at varsity. And it started. She learned from a master aka Mom and was very subtle in her approach to get a car. With subtle I mean she tormented me daily with insinuations of love and favoritism and feminism and independence and women are better drivers. I did not stand a chance and did what any man would do in a similar situation, I bought her a car. She was ecstatic when we finally “surprised” her. She even taught me how to take a boomerang which she posted on her Instagram story. And for that I blame the fucking Kardashians.

I have to admit it was a tough day for the Wife and I because our little baby was finally independent. Another leave fell from the I-don’t-need-you-anymore tree. We survived that day because we raised teens. Tough as nails, I tell you.

Two weeks later she had to go back to university. Shit.

I was a passenger on that fateful trip and only nearly died twice. I can’t blame her because she’s never driven long distance before and how did she know that you have to reduce speed when you come across a pothole the size of Lake Victoria or accelerate when you want to pass thirteen trucks in a row. I taught her that. I didn’t even scream. At least I don’t think I did.

I had to leave her there, said goodbye and watched as she skipped all the way to her dorm. I got a lift back from a friend and didn’t have any other near death experiences that day. Now we just sit at home and have faith that she will be safe on the road among potholes, drunk students, broken hearts and other students who simply can’t drive. Life was perfect. For her. Independent and free. For us it was torture and a constant reminder why I didn’t want to get the car in the first place.

Then she decided to come home for the weekend. Shit…shit.

I started with arguments and friendly prompts whether it was really necessary to come home. I told her our house is really not that awesome, so why drive four hours just to see a couple of old people who will moan and complain about stuff. I might have laid it on too thick because at one point she asked her Mom why I don’t want to see her. Let’s just say I had to do a LOT of grovelling.

So she decided to drive home for the weekend, as if there was any chance of me convincing her otherwise. Fortunately I have tracking on my phone so I can check her progress. Unfortunately I have tracking on my phone so I can check her progress. I am fully absorbed by the little moving dot rendering myself completely unproductive. Did I mention I am a nervous wreck? What if she gets lost? What if she gets a flat tyre? What if she gets abducted by aliens?

I can’t wait for her to be home so that my heartbeat, blood pressure and sweaty palms can return to normal. I don’t like this feeling of slowly dying.

She still has 40 km to go…no only 39…wait only 38…