Sunday, 1 April 2012

How to be a bit of a scrubber...

Yesterday my son came home trailing a suitcase stuffed with laundry.  He doesn’t stay very long you understand – just long enough to have me wash, tumble dry, iron and repack the suitcase.  Robbie came through the door telling me all about his latest dissection with great gusto.  I always do my best to be enthusiastic back, but it’s hard.  I like human bodies to be alive, kicking and in one piece.  Not smelling of formaldehyde with bits missing from the previous lot of medical students who had to remove a brain or something.

I unzipped the suitcase and my son’s clinic tunic was perched on top.  ‘Give that a good wash Mum,’ said Rob, ‘it reeks of death.’ He gave me a mischievous wink.  I donned a pair of pink rubber gloves and gingerly set about dissecting the contents of my son’s suitcase, placing the tunic in the washing machine as if a stick of dynamite.

I’m thrilled my son wants to be a dentist and has embraced his studies with such passion.  My mother is too.  As a retired nurse, she was very sad that her own daughters didn’t follow her into the profession, especially in the days of us husband hunting and not bagging ourselves a doctor.  Being raised by a nurse rubbed off on my sister and self in other ways.  OCD about germs being key.  When we were kids, we imagined an army of virulent germs carting us off to hospital if we didn’t wash our hands for example.  Death hovered in every public toilet. 

In some respects my son has morphed into my mother.  Little did I know that as I stood at the kitchen sink washing my hands, my actions were being studied.  ‘You call that hand washing?’ Robbie spluttered.  ‘Let me show you how to clean your hands properly.’  And with that he set about going between the webby bits, circling motions over the palms, washing each individual finger and thumb in a clockwise and anti-clock direction, and then proceeded to work his way up to the elbow.  ‘I’m not scrubbing up for surgery,’ I gaped at him in disbelief, ‘I just want to peel the vegetables.’

Anyway, all this chat about corpses and food reminds me of a silly joke
What did the skeleton say before eating his dinner?  Bone appétit.

I know.  Dismal.  Happy Sunday everyone...   

1 comment:

  1. I might have to take a leaf out of your book on blogging as an author. So many authors' bloggs are simple advice pages for other authors, which I refuse to do. So I struggl;e with ideas of what to write. Should I write about the writing process or the slices of life? I know the answer is to do both but somehow I find it had to get the balance.