Twenty years is a long time

Today is 20 years since my father passed away.  I was 14, he was 49.  It's a long time.  There are a lot of things in my life, and in the world in general, that he has missed out on.

We are having a memorial this weekend to finally inter his ashes - he's been on the shelf and in the shed for 20 years, poor guy!  It's funny, I don't miss him constantly, it's not like a pain or an ache, but more like a sensitive muscle that just twinges every now and then if I think about it or move the wrong way...

He would have been a great Granddad. He would have been a menace on Facebook.

Anyway, in the spirit of remembrance, here's an unfinished piece I wrote a couple of years back about the day he died.

The end of the chapter

It’s winter.  The air in her bedroom is cold, but R is warm, sandwiched between several layers of duvet and the womb of her waterbed (don’t hassle her, it’s the ‘90s, they were cool then).  It’s morning, early, but not too early, quiet but for the click-click-click of the dog’s claws on the wooden floor of the hallway.  He wants to go outside and R can hear him but she doesn’t move just yet.  It’s the last Friday of the school holidays (dogs have no respect for weekends and holidays) so she’s savouring her lie-in.  One arm snakes out from beneath the covers to grab her current bedroom book (she has three on the go – one for the bedroom, one for the living room and one for the bathroom) and flick on the bedside light.  She is quickly drawn back into the world she reluctantly left the previous night, when her eyelids could no longer resist the beckoning advances of her cheeks.

The Incredible Immunity Girl

The Kid never gets sick.  Except, you know, cancer, but even then, she wasn't actually ill with it.

Sometimes I feel bad about it - the other working parents I talk with are always commiserating about the constant stream of bugs their kids pick up from daycare and/or school - coughs, runny noses, tummy bugs, chicken pox, hand foot and mouth - and how many days they end up having to take off or work partly from home.  I nod along sympathetically, but I can't really join in because The Kid has had maybe one day off from daycare, and one day off from school since she first started at nursery just before her first birthday.

Chicken pox swept through her daycare five or six times while she was there, and her best buddy got it.  The two of them were always hanging out head-to-head, so if she was going to get it, she should have got it that time.  But nope, nothing.  I'm vacillating between getting her vaccinated for the pox, and hoping she just has some sort of natural immunity...

The Kid has a book called "The Incredible Book-Eating Boy" by Oliver Jeffers (which I highly recommend) in which the eponymous character throws up (too many books).  I had to explain to her what throwing up was, because she has never done it!  Actually, that's not quite true. Just before she turned one, we got home after work/nursery one evening and as I got her out of her car seat she threw up straight down my cleavage.  She wouldn't eat that evening, threw up once more (smiling and happy all the while) and by the next day she was fine.  I, on the other hand, spent the next week flitting between bed and bathroom, more ill than I've been in my life. Thanks Kid.

When she was at Preschool she was often upset that she never got one of the coveted iceblocks (ice lollies), which were kept in the freezer for first aid purposes (fevers, tummy bugs etc - it's amazing what flavoured frozen water can cure!)  Once when I was haranguing The Kid to wash her hands after going to the toilet, and said to her "If you don't wash your hands you'll get sick, and you don't want to get sick, do you?" she replied "Yes I do, because then I'll get an iceblock at Preschool!"  Possibly not the effect they were aiming for.  The day she got stung by a wasp on an outing was possibly her best day ever because on returning to centre she convinced a teacher that a wasp sting was iceblock worthy.  When I came to pick her up she came running up to me and said "Guess what Mummy? I got stung by a mosquito and I got to have a WHOLE iceblock!"  She was clearly traumatised.

The Kid certainly doesn't get her immune system from me. I was always getting ear infections and sore throats as a child, although it improved immeasurably once I had my tonsils removed, at age 7.  At 14 I was diagnosed with an autoimmune condition called sarcoidosis of the larynx and spent the next 15 years on steroids to control it.  That is inactive now, but has morphed into another autoimmune condition called uveitis, which affects my right eye.  Uveitis can be one-off, recur sporadically or be chronic.  Mine is chronic (yay, me!)

The Kid's Dad is obviously responsible for her robust health.  He has never been in hospital as a patient, not even when he made his first entrance to the world. He often complains that since meeting me he has spent more time in hospitals than he ever thought possible. I like to introduce people to new experiences... ;)

I do count my lucky stars, touch wood and many other cliches that I have such a healthy child.  It certainly makes the life of a working parent much easier. Speaking of cliches, "famous last words" and "tempting fate" are suddenly coming to mind... ;)

The lost arts of kissing and silence

When I was 17, a boy I liked (let's call him Billy) told me that men (boys) were intimidated by me, basically because I could be silent. Apparently I was scary because they (the men/boys) would say something, and I would just look at them, silently. They would feel like I was judging them or something (I'm making assumptions now) , and would then rush to fill the silence, ending up saying silly things and feeling embarrassed and hence becoming further intimidated by me. A vicious cycle.

Now, I never set out to be intimidating, but it's true that I'm comfortable with silence.  I don't know if this comes from being an only child, from acting training ("CLAIM the stage with your presence!"), or if it's just my personality, but I am perfectly happy to be silent with other people without feeling the need to fill the silence with chitchat.  Sometimes this drives my husband nuts (we have a bit of a gender reversal from the assumed norm - he's always asking me "What are you thinking?") but I just don't see the need for oral communication all the time.

So why do some people find silence so intimidating?  Is it because people are generally not great at reading body language and therefore need to be told how other people are feeling all the time?  I'm quite good at reading mood and sub-text through body language - is this because I'm ok with silence or am I ok with silence because I can read body language? I don't have any answers, just lots of questions! But ever since Billy made his great revelation, I've remembered (and utilised) the potential power wielded by the silent person...

As a side note, I didn't like Billy for much longer after that, not because of the intimidation thing but because when he kissed me, he turned out to be a tongue thruster. You know, the kind of guy who, when he kissed me, seemed like he was actually trying to do a thorough medical exam of my mouth and throat without using his hands. Not pleasant.  Also, he would occasionally mix it up by removing his tongue from my throat and bathing the lower half of my face in saliva instead.  I'm not sure he realised that I wasn't responding with passion, I was just trying to save myself from drowning.

Here's a tip for anyone who is yet to have their first kiss (or anyone who currently thinks that a kiss isn't a kiss unless you've licked the other person's tonsils at least once) - kissing is all about lips. Lips, not tongue. Did you ever notice that on a T9 phone, "kiss" and "lips" have the same number sequence? That's not a coincidence. A little bit of tongue is ok, but if in doubt, just keep it out!

I wonder what happens when two tongue thrusters get together?  Do they have an epiphany and realise that their kissing style, as mirrored by their partner, is about as pleasant as being ball-gagged?  Or do they each think the other is the most fantastic kisser ever, and go off blissfully into a saliva-filled future together?

Remember kids, kiss with your lips, and  don't be afraid of silence.  That concludes today's lesson.

The Chip Bag Incident

Yesterday I was jokingly reprimanded by a colleague for not squashing a box lid before putting it in the recycle bin (exciting stuff, I know.  Our office is rockin'!) and I was (mostly jokingly) piqued because I knew I hadn't put the box lid in there in the first place (and would have squashed if I had!). She assumed it was me because the box lid had my name on it - and I was suddenly reminded of an incident, which still rankles, from my primary school days.

I've always been one of those people who thrives on positive feedback and hates being told off. If I did something wrong which I thought might result in a telling off, I would lose sleep, my heart rate would increase and adrenaline would start singing round my body as I imagined the anticipated reprimand.  These days I'm aware of how much of a ridiculous overreaction this is, and can talk myself down most of the time. As a manager, I have to put my neck on the line for my team sometimes, and I know that sometimes there is good reason for doing something which might antagonise someone in authority.  Still, it's deeply entrenched.

Anyway, when I was at primary school we could order our lunch from several of the shops over the road from the school, one of which was a fish and chip shop.  We would write our name, room number and order on an envelope, put the money inside the envelope and post it through the shop door before school.  Then, just before lunchtime, the lunch monitors would go and collect all the lunch orders and distribute them.  One afternoon, when I was about seven, after a very satisfying hot dog (this kind) and chips (fries) for lunch, I was back in class when a note arrived - "Could Renee please come and see Mr Allen in Room 12".

I was not the kind of kid who got summonsed places very often, except to receive accolades (yes, I was THAT kid at school) so I was confused but not too worried.  But when I entered the classroom full of very big and scary-looking Form Two (eleven and twelve year olds) kids, my heart began to thump in my chest.  I made my way to the front of the class where Mr Allen, a large balding man with a booming voice, stood waiting, holding an empty and crumpled-looking paper bag.  I can't recall the exact conversation, but I imagine it went something like this:

Mr A: Is this your lunch bag? (holding up the ketchupy bag with an envelope stapled to the front, displaying my name in big, bold, 7-year-old handwriting)
Me: Yes.
Mr A: Well why didn't you throw it in the rubbish bin?
Me: Um, what do you mean?
Mr A: I found it blowing around the playground.  We don't tolerate littering in this school.  Why didn't you put it in the rubbish bin?
Me: But...I didn't drop it.  I gave it to my friend because there were some chips left that I didn't want.
Mr A: Well it has your name on it.  You need to make sure your rubbish goes in the bin.  Make sure you do next time.

At this point my knees were shaking, I could barely breath and it's a miracle I didn't wet my pants, so horrified was I at being thought a litterer and a Bad Child.  I knew it wasn't my fault, but this didn't seem to make any difference to the large scary man in front of me.  I heard several sniggers as I fled from the classroom and I could feel the laughing eyes of the very grown up (in my mind anyway) Form Two kids, my idols, on me as I went.

I still remember the name of the girl who was the actual littering culprit, and I'm pretty sure I never let her finish my chips again.  I'm sure Mr Allen would be horrified to know that this one experience is so firmly burned into my brain (or maybe he'd be pleased; some teachers are quite sadistic), but I think this was also the first of a number of experiences that started to show me that authority figures are not always right. I didn't fight back that time, but it put me on the right path to challenge in the future.

Do other people have such a horror of being told off, particularly when it seems unjustified?