Sunday 28 June 2015

Week 194 bleeding, gipping and Emily Bishop...

Now, I'm not saying I'm Florence Nightingale or anything when it comes to my children, but I thought I'd be able to deal with a bit of blood.

Turns out no.

Turns out I'm a total weaner when it comes to injuries, however minor.

This shouldn't have come as much of a surprise. 

I broke my toe on New Year's Eve in Thailand about a million years ago, and fainted at the sight of my own blood. 

In my defence it was a tad unexpected. 

We were in a shack that was on a cliff face and was built around the rocks. At midnight they turned the lights off to do the countdown and when they shouted 'Happy New Year,' turned them back on again, blasting out Billy Jean, my second all time fave Michael Jackson song, so I jumped in the air and in doing so smashed both feet into one of the rocks. 

There was blood everywhere. 

After a quick faint, I decided to ignore it, wrap my toe in bog roll and have another bucket of Thai whiskey.  

January 1st started well with a septic toe that still makes me gip when I think about it.

But I digress.

My daughter was pelting it down the road on her scooter and careered headlong into a bag of cement. 

By the time I reached her she was sobbing so much that I couldn't work out where one word ended and the next began, clutching a big bloody grazed elbow.

And all I could think was, 'shit. I definitely don't want to touch that.'

I scooped her up, carried her home, gave her two and a half ice lollies as a bribe so she'd let me put some Savalon on it.

I was trying to play it cool. Be the voice of confidence. 

But I was shouting at her about an octave higher that normal, projecting massive nervous body language that was anything but reassuring. 

I was back in that ramshackle nightclub looking down at a pool of blood again, gipping my face off.

Give me a car sick child any day. 

Puke. No wozzers. Blood. No thanks.

So. New mid year resolution.

I've going to man up.

Approach cuts and grazes with the confidence of Kanye, the professionalism of Alicia Florrick and the bedside manner of Emily Bishop. 

Either that or keep a shit load of ice lollies in the freezer. 

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