Doing a Bunk and Getting Stitched Up
August kicks off Silly Season in my family, birthday-wise. First there's my father-in-law, then my daughter, then my grandfather. Then my wife and, hot on her heels, in early September, my son.
For my daughter's birthday, everyone's clubbed together to buy her bunk beds, something she's had her heart set on for quite some time. So, choosing to ignore the 'I'm Working Up to an Imaginary Friend'-style warning signs, we shot out to IKEA to pick up half a forest and more screws than a decent-sized penal system.
When it comes to matters of assembly, furniture and I just don't click. The only time my wife's actually feared for her life while in my presence was during an attempt to construct a flat-packed computer desk, so she wisely popped out to watch the football for a few hours (Go the Eagles!), leaving me and my tool kit to take care of business.
I'm proud to say that I got through the entire job without losing my temper once. Better yet was my daughter's decision to pop in every half hour, eye up the part-built beds and say 'You're doing a great job, Dad'. Bless.
She's still not having a new wardrobe though.
Yesterday had us off to Cottesloe for a joint birthday party for Lauren and my father-in-law. Everything went reasonably well until my son crawled under a table then stood up, catching his head on a metal underbar. It was obvious that the cut needed stitches, so it was away across town to the hospital.
Where they kept us waiting fifteen minutes before informing us that this was an adult hospital and they didn't do kids, packing us off to the children's hospital instead.
Now I'm not what I'd call up to speed on medical advances, but a surely a stitch is a stitch is a stitch. Lucky Sean wasn't bleeding to death - he wouldn't have been able to have a transfusion, not when the hospital only had grown-up blood.
Idiots.
Something else took me by surprise when we did get to the children's hospital. Sean had quietened down considerably in the (unnecessarily long) time since the accident, but the moment we were shown into the treatment area and he saw the hospital bed, he went crazy.
As a premature baby, he'd spent a lot of time in hospital during his first year, enduring everything up to and including spinal taps. Now the sight of that bed drove him into screams of utter terror.
Who says they don't remember things from when they were babies?
Anyway, all back to normal today for my daughter's birthday proper. She bundled off to school loudly proclaiming the identity of the birthday girl to anyone who'd listen (and several more who wouldn't), and I got to spend the morning transcribing various bits and pieces while Sean played happily by himself, just as if nothing had happened last night.
Then, come the afternoon, the inevitable avalanche of cake and ice-cream.
That's number 46 on the 'Benefits of Having Young Children' list, for anyone keeping count.
For my daughter's birthday, everyone's clubbed together to buy her bunk beds, something she's had her heart set on for quite some time. So, choosing to ignore the 'I'm Working Up to an Imaginary Friend'-style warning signs, we shot out to IKEA to pick up half a forest and more screws than a decent-sized penal system.
When it comes to matters of assembly, furniture and I just don't click. The only time my wife's actually feared for her life while in my presence was during an attempt to construct a flat-packed computer desk, so she wisely popped out to watch the football for a few hours (Go the Eagles!), leaving me and my tool kit to take care of business.
I'm proud to say that I got through the entire job without losing my temper once. Better yet was my daughter's decision to pop in every half hour, eye up the part-built beds and say 'You're doing a great job, Dad'. Bless.
She's still not having a new wardrobe though.
Yesterday had us off to Cottesloe for a joint birthday party for Lauren and my father-in-law. Everything went reasonably well until my son crawled under a table then stood up, catching his head on a metal underbar. It was obvious that the cut needed stitches, so it was away across town to the hospital.
Where they kept us waiting fifteen minutes before informing us that this was an adult hospital and they didn't do kids, packing us off to the children's hospital instead.
Now I'm not what I'd call up to speed on medical advances, but a surely a stitch is a stitch is a stitch. Lucky Sean wasn't bleeding to death - he wouldn't have been able to have a transfusion, not when the hospital only had grown-up blood.
Idiots.
Something else took me by surprise when we did get to the children's hospital. Sean had quietened down considerably in the (unnecessarily long) time since the accident, but the moment we were shown into the treatment area and he saw the hospital bed, he went crazy.
As a premature baby, he'd spent a lot of time in hospital during his first year, enduring everything up to and including spinal taps. Now the sight of that bed drove him into screams of utter terror.
Who says they don't remember things from when they were babies?
Anyway, all back to normal today for my daughter's birthday proper. She bundled off to school loudly proclaiming the identity of the birthday girl to anyone who'd listen (and several more who wouldn't), and I got to spend the morning transcribing various bits and pieces while Sean played happily by himself, just as if nothing had happened last night.
Then, come the afternoon, the inevitable avalanche of cake and ice-cream.
That's number 46 on the 'Benefits of Having Young Children' list, for anyone keeping count.
posted by Pete Kempshall at 8:26 PM
1 Comments:
That's OK. You've changed your name so many times she doesn't know who you are anyway ;)
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