As some of you will know I have been 'blessed' with rather unique digits. My fingers are - too put it in the Bruce McAveney vernacular - 'special'.
I have what is known in the medical fraternity as quasi clubbing. This means that as my chubby little fingers reach their terminus they flatten and spread.
In less cultured company my 'affliction' leads me to be referred to as hobbit hands.
True clubbing is quite rare and it seems that doctors are taught to look out for this when seeing patients as it is often a symptom of congentive lung disease. As a result whenever I go to see a doctor, no matter the reason for my visit, my fingers will invariably draw their attention. Now if I had true clubbing, and the corresponding lung illness, I would find the eagle eyes of the medical profession to be a boon. However, as a quasi clubber this unwanted attention just ends up being annoying.
For example playing rugby at school I had my share of injuries. Once my hand slipped into a scrum machine just as we packed down. This resulted in three fingers getting caught in the springs. And my coach, mistaking my screams of agony as an indication of willingness to go hard, exhorted the boys behind me to 'drop, squeeze and drive'. It was only when I dropped, to my knees, that they stopped, and my mangled fingers came clear.
Feeling a little sore and sorry I was more than a little miffed when having reached the medical practice for repair (three needles per finger and then a tweezer job to pluck the shattered nails out of the pads in case you were wondering) the doctor was so intrigued by my hands that he called all the other doctors into the room. Not to fix me up, but rather to have a gander at my fingers and a lengthy discussion as to whether I should be whisked off for a chest x-ray.
Were I born on the other side of the world hands such as mine might make me truly special, as opposed to speeeshial. In Holland for example, should a hole appear in the dike it would be my time to shine. My broad, flattened fingers would fill twice the gap of those of you with fine elfin appendages.
I think it no measure of hubris to suggest I may have gone on to become a national treasure there.
But luck would have it that I was born down under, where, other than as a training tool for junior medicos, my fingers have seemingly served little purpose other than as a source of endless frustration when dealing with those pesky little keyboards on mobile phones.
All this changed last week when our little bundle of joy started to teethe.
In order to minimise the pain of having his teeth come through Harry will jam anything his chubby (correctly formed) hands can shove into his mouth, and then chomp down with copious quantities of drool and a contented gurgle.
And my fingers appear to be have the perfect combination of shape, consistency and availability. As a result a good part of my day is now spent with a four month old baby locked onto my hand chewing away with gay abandon.
And while I will never receive the Order of the Orange-Nassau for saving the kingdom of the Netherlands from a watery grave, the look of unalloyed joy that Harry shares with me while he munches on my 'claws' makes all the frustration when texting, and the annoyance at the doctors, well worth while.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Messing with his mind
As some of you may know, Harry and I have been covering quite a lot of kilometres each week. The wee man in his pram, me pushing it and our trusty 4 legged friend Ichiban by our side. Our first port of call each morning is King Street Wharves where young Harry gets his morning feed and Ros gets her morning cuddles. It's as perfect a symbiotic relationship as you are ever likely to see.
The destination post feeding and cuddle stop depends on the day and the weather. If it's fine we'll cruise on through to Circular Quay, head around past Woolloomooloo and up through the Cross to see what we can see. If it is Thursday we head over to the fishmarkets to see what's fresh take it home and try out a new recipe and if, as lately, the weather isn't kind we hightail it home and catch up on some chores.
In all this walking I have discovered a few inalienable truths:
1. Mothers pushing their prams will never smile at us as we pass, let alone make eye contact,
2. Drunks always smile at us as we pass, even those whose eyes are rolling in the back of their heads at the time,
3. The occupants of Chinatown invariably freak out when a 'crazy' dog gets within 10 metres of them, and lastly,
4. If you are attentive, and perhaps a wee bit nosy, you get to overhear some great stuff.
Last week while waiting for Ros to meet us by the wharf a couple with their toddler in a stroller passed us by. As they neared their child sneezed. The dad, said 'bless you', nothing odd there, but the mother loudly corrected him and insisted that the 'correct' thing to say was 'pardon you'. I'd never heard that before.
This got me to thinking, and a little reminiscing. When I was growing up my father always said 'gesundheit' when we sneezed. And I, being the impressionable type, figured that this was the right thing to say when someone sneezed. I would do so at school, at parties, wherever. In polite company this would usually elicit a confused look, at school the response would be more direct and less polite - rarely I would be asked what synagogue I went to.
Gesundheit, is the Yiddish word for health and is, so says Wikipedia, generally uttered in response to a sneeze by German, Yiddish and some North American English speakers to wish the person good health. There's no mention of the use of the word in Sydney Australia. Nor should there be because from my unscientific test of using the word for 30 some years it's pretty much unheard of.
And so I got thinking that should this lady hold her ground and insist that 'pardon you' was the appropriate response to a sneeze, and from her vehemence I had little doubt that this ground was rock solid, then some other kid was going to grow up uttering an equally odd response when a person within their hearing sneezed.
And as it was a fine day, and a longer walk was permitted, I thought on this some more.
And my conclusion? My conclusion was that this being a parent thingy was going to be serious fun. Because until little Harry is old enough to check his facts on the 'net, and to be taught right from wrong at school, I will have a major role in formulating his ideas of what's is right, what is wrong, what the facts are and how the whole thing works. And he won't know better, he won't know I'm just making this stuff up - or in my father's case that his dad has taught him to act in a way that be right somewhere but is just plain different from what other people do where he lives.
Sure there's the big stuff like teaching Harry that when you see something being done that is wrong you don't stand by, you act. That when someone says something that is hateful or harmful to others you don't let it slide but speak up. I want to teach him these things, just like my parents taught me that by their actions and their words. I don't wish to trivialise the big stuff.
In fact, if I may digress for just a second, I've never forgotten a moment that must have happened when I was only 5 or 6. Mum, Dad my Sister and I were walking down a city street one night quite late (which to a youngster means any time after 8pm I suppose) and a man was screaming and yelling at a woman, right in her face, grabbing her arm. The street was busy and everyone just walked on by. But my Dad stopped and he told the guy off, he said that behaviour was unacceptable, and Mum chimed in too. My Dad wasn't the smallest person on the street, nor the largest, but he was the bravest at the time, and Mum was too. And that moment has always stuck with me, and it always will.
It taught me about not letting stuff slide, about taking responsibility for your community, about doing the right thing. Hopefully I can be a good role model in this regard for Harry. But that's the big stuff. Where I see real fun is the little stuff, the facts on the periphery of what matters if you will.
That people who say they don't like watching sport just haven't watched enough. That your horse really does run faster if you yell at the telly and whip your bum with the form guide. That the umpire can hear you when you yell 'ball' at the television and that the Union Jack isn't in our flag because we are a snivelling colony unwilling to stand on our own two feet, but rather we won the right to put it there having beaten the Poms at every sport they ever invented.
And that was just the stuff I could think of while on our stroll. I have no doubt that with a little care and attention I can have this boy's mind so thoroughly warped by the time the teachers get their hands on him that at least a little of it will stick. We all have to have a dream don't we.
Gesundheit to you all.
The destination post feeding and cuddle stop depends on the day and the weather. If it's fine we'll cruise on through to Circular Quay, head around past Woolloomooloo and up through the Cross to see what we can see. If it is Thursday we head over to the fishmarkets to see what's fresh take it home and try out a new recipe and if, as lately, the weather isn't kind we hightail it home and catch up on some chores.
In all this walking I have discovered a few inalienable truths:
1. Mothers pushing their prams will never smile at us as we pass, let alone make eye contact,
2. Drunks always smile at us as we pass, even those whose eyes are rolling in the back of their heads at the time,
3. The occupants of Chinatown invariably freak out when a 'crazy' dog gets within 10 metres of them, and lastly,
4. If you are attentive, and perhaps a wee bit nosy, you get to overhear some great stuff.
Last week while waiting for Ros to meet us by the wharf a couple with their toddler in a stroller passed us by. As they neared their child sneezed. The dad, said 'bless you', nothing odd there, but the mother loudly corrected him and insisted that the 'correct' thing to say was 'pardon you'. I'd never heard that before.
This got me to thinking, and a little reminiscing. When I was growing up my father always said 'gesundheit' when we sneezed. And I, being the impressionable type, figured that this was the right thing to say when someone sneezed. I would do so at school, at parties, wherever. In polite company this would usually elicit a confused look, at school the response would be more direct and less polite - rarely I would be asked what synagogue I went to.
Gesundheit, is the Yiddish word for health and is, so says Wikipedia, generally uttered in response to a sneeze by German, Yiddish and some North American English speakers to wish the person good health. There's no mention of the use of the word in Sydney Australia. Nor should there be because from my unscientific test of using the word for 30 some years it's pretty much unheard of.
And so I got thinking that should this lady hold her ground and insist that 'pardon you' was the appropriate response to a sneeze, and from her vehemence I had little doubt that this ground was rock solid, then some other kid was going to grow up uttering an equally odd response when a person within their hearing sneezed.
And as it was a fine day, and a longer walk was permitted, I thought on this some more.
And my conclusion? My conclusion was that this being a parent thingy was going to be serious fun. Because until little Harry is old enough to check his facts on the 'net, and to be taught right from wrong at school, I will have a major role in formulating his ideas of what's is right, what is wrong, what the facts are and how the whole thing works. And he won't know better, he won't know I'm just making this stuff up - or in my father's case that his dad has taught him to act in a way that be right somewhere but is just plain different from what other people do where he lives.
Sure there's the big stuff like teaching Harry that when you see something being done that is wrong you don't stand by, you act. That when someone says something that is hateful or harmful to others you don't let it slide but speak up. I want to teach him these things, just like my parents taught me that by their actions and their words. I don't wish to trivialise the big stuff.
In fact, if I may digress for just a second, I've never forgotten a moment that must have happened when I was only 5 or 6. Mum, Dad my Sister and I were walking down a city street one night quite late (which to a youngster means any time after 8pm I suppose) and a man was screaming and yelling at a woman, right in her face, grabbing her arm. The street was busy and everyone just walked on by. But my Dad stopped and he told the guy off, he said that behaviour was unacceptable, and Mum chimed in too. My Dad wasn't the smallest person on the street, nor the largest, but he was the bravest at the time, and Mum was too. And that moment has always stuck with me, and it always will.
It taught me about not letting stuff slide, about taking responsibility for your community, about doing the right thing. Hopefully I can be a good role model in this regard for Harry. But that's the big stuff. Where I see real fun is the little stuff, the facts on the periphery of what matters if you will.
That people who say they don't like watching sport just haven't watched enough. That your horse really does run faster if you yell at the telly and whip your bum with the form guide. That the umpire can hear you when you yell 'ball' at the television and that the Union Jack isn't in our flag because we are a snivelling colony unwilling to stand on our own two feet, but rather we won the right to put it there having beaten the Poms at every sport they ever invented.
And that was just the stuff I could think of while on our stroll. I have no doubt that with a little care and attention I can have this boy's mind so thoroughly warped by the time the teachers get their hands on him that at least a little of it will stick. We all have to have a dream don't we.
Gesundheit to you all.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Testing times
Having begun at the beginning and moved along to the present, I will, if I may, take a step back in time.
Once Ros had told me she was pregnant, we entered what was, for me anyway, the scariest part of the pregnancy. I think of the period as 'The Testing Times'. Not testing, as in arduous or challenging, in truth I had little to do at this stage, it was literally testing. There was the 12 week scan, another ultrasound soon after that and then the fortnightly trips to the doctor following those. At each of these scans or visits, I feared that my perfect world would be ripped asunder.
I was on tenterhooks the whole time and couldn't help but wonder whether it would just be better to no do these tests at all. Incidentally I love the expression 'to be on tenterhooks', but for years I used to say 'tenderhooks' as I had no idea what a tenterhook was - it's a hook which is arrayed on a tenter which is itself a frame across which newly milled cloth is stretched so that it may dry without shrinking just in case anyone is curious.
Joining Ros at the midwives didn't help relive the tension much either. The midwives had no interest in including me in any conversation, and as I came to realise, little interest in me being there at all.
I'd gone along because I thought that was the thing to do - at least that was what the authors of the baby books told me to do. And having begun reading these books in order to try to better understand what Ros was undergoing, and to get prepared for life after birth, I thought it best to take up their advice.
However, the combination of the useless advice regarding joining your partner at the midwife visits and the exclusive use of the female pronoun to describe both the baby and it's caregiver, led me to conclude that these books weren't really aimed at me. The only book I stuck with was one which described the pregnancy on a week by week basis. And I cheated with that, skipping ahead weeks to get to the 'exciting stuff' much like a child opening extra doors on his advent calendar to get to the extra chocolate.
I then made the mistake of turning to the baby websites in my search for information and descended into a hell of schmaltz, and acronyms, on a truly epic scale. There were pages in which people discussed what lovey huggy names they used when talking to their partners (my favourite being the couple who called each other baby puppy and baby meatball), what method of conception works best (and stunningly not once was the word sex used which made me wonder whether these were adult women or toddlers posting) and of course the never ending source of mirth - baby names.
There were pages and pages of people who listed their potential baby names and then asked for honest feedback. And people who owned up to naming their children Presley Rain and Chais Phoenix would give their opinions. However, providing my thoughts on Cruze Jude and Honor Donna got me booted from these sites so I suppose they didn't want really honest feedback after all.
Having given up on the serious books, been excluded by the medical fraternity and expelled from the bizarre world of mummy websites, I went back to my old friend 'Your pregnancy explained week by week' and promptly jumped ahead to see what was coming in a couple of weeks time.
Once Ros had told me she was pregnant, we entered what was, for me anyway, the scariest part of the pregnancy. I think of the period as 'The Testing Times'. Not testing, as in arduous or challenging, in truth I had little to do at this stage, it was literally testing. There was the 12 week scan, another ultrasound soon after that and then the fortnightly trips to the doctor following those. At each of these scans or visits, I feared that my perfect world would be ripped asunder.
I was on tenterhooks the whole time and couldn't help but wonder whether it would just be better to no do these tests at all. Incidentally I love the expression 'to be on tenterhooks', but for years I used to say 'tenderhooks' as I had no idea what a tenterhook was - it's a hook which is arrayed on a tenter which is itself a frame across which newly milled cloth is stretched so that it may dry without shrinking just in case anyone is curious.
Joining Ros at the midwives didn't help relive the tension much either. The midwives had no interest in including me in any conversation, and as I came to realise, little interest in me being there at all.
I'd gone along because I thought that was the thing to do - at least that was what the authors of the baby books told me to do. And having begun reading these books in order to try to better understand what Ros was undergoing, and to get prepared for life after birth, I thought it best to take up their advice.
However, the combination of the useless advice regarding joining your partner at the midwife visits and the exclusive use of the female pronoun to describe both the baby and it's caregiver, led me to conclude that these books weren't really aimed at me. The only book I stuck with was one which described the pregnancy on a week by week basis. And I cheated with that, skipping ahead weeks to get to the 'exciting stuff' much like a child opening extra doors on his advent calendar to get to the extra chocolate.
I then made the mistake of turning to the baby websites in my search for information and descended into a hell of schmaltz, and acronyms, on a truly epic scale. There were pages in which people discussed what lovey huggy names they used when talking to their partners (my favourite being the couple who called each other baby puppy and baby meatball), what method of conception works best (and stunningly not once was the word sex used which made me wonder whether these were adult women or toddlers posting) and of course the never ending source of mirth - baby names.
There were pages and pages of people who listed their potential baby names and then asked for honest feedback. And people who owned up to naming their children Presley Rain and Chais Phoenix would give their opinions. However, providing my thoughts on Cruze Jude and Honor Donna got me booted from these sites so I suppose they didn't want really honest feedback after all.
Having given up on the serious books, been excluded by the medical fraternity and expelled from the bizarre world of mummy websites, I went back to my old friend 'Your pregnancy explained week by week' and promptly jumped ahead to see what was coming in a couple of weeks time.
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