Welcome to the sometimes painful, often preposterous, essentially playful world of the woman who brought you 'The Grass Was Always Browner' -- a tell-all memoir of my Sydney-based childhood, originally titled 'Dancing with Dingoes'. There's some dancing in it.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Sick is sick
Sick is an affirmation these days. Sick is good. But in my day, and in my book still, sick is sick. Sick is not-good.
However, sick doesn't have to be altogether bad either...
Lemon: sick is sick
My youngest (14) has been sick this week. We had the long weekend, he had too many late nights with two separate sleepovers, and come Tuesday he's got a temperature, sore throat and a headache. Wednesday it had progressed to sneezing. Friday he wants to go back to school so he can go to table-tennis after school. He goes with his Chinese friends and loves it.
Sick means I get to 'play mum' a little, and he gets to play boy. We revel in our respective roles, though most of the time, these days, we don't revel so much. Fourteen is grown up, in most part. In most part his head is full of 'adult'-type concerns and questions. He's a culture buff for starters, he knows more about classic cinema than most grown-ups. He has an opinion on the purpose of poetry. On the other hand, being the youngest extends youth as far as it will go. We hug still, for instance. I still wake him for school every morning.
So sometimes I wonder if I am going too easy on him, letting him stay home for another day, a fourth day off,. But when I'm pouring this honey into this blue cup he's busy blowing the contents of his upper head into a tissue or twelve. The noise is like an earth mover at work. I can relax, there's no way he should have gone to school today.