So, I’ve torn a ligament or something in my knee, not sure exactly what I’ve done but it chuffin’ hurts. I’m don’t know how I did it but it’s very probably a ‘boy related injury’. They usually are and this one means I’m hobbling around very slowly with the aid of a stick muttering swear words under my breath.
I was sent for an x-ray on it last week and not being a great fan of the hospital gowns they make you wear that show off your backside, when the hospital called with the appointment I asked if I’d need to take my trousers off.
‘We’ll need to see your knee so just wear a skirt’
There was a slight pause and I’m sorry but I’d not spoken to anyone all day so I comically (to me) replied with ‘Well I’ll have to go and buy one first’. Tumbleweeds……
I don’t know why I try to talk to people sometimes. She didn’t know how to take me so I told her not to worry and I’d just wear something baggy. I ended up standing with my trousers round my ankles whilst the x-ray technician ferreted around in front of me getting my knee at the desired angle and I tried not to swear!
AND I’ve also apparently bruised my breastbone but I know how that happened – a kick to the chest from Squeak whilst changing him.
He doesn’t like getting his nappy changed, or getting dressed for that matter, so every time he’ll thrash and kick to a screamed soundtrack of ‘DON’T TOUCH MY BOTTOM!’ I’ve no idea what the neighbours think! And please don’t suggest a ‘stand up change’ because I can’t do them. I’ve tried and I just can’t get the hang of them, might help if he didn’t slap me about the head whilst I fumbled between his legs trying to tuck a nappy somewhere…
Anyway whilst I’m alternating heat and ice and scoffing paracetamols, it got me to thinking of when I was little and any accident or ailment was always dealt with the same way – applying a liberal amount of butter! Bog standard, whatever was in the fridge, cheap butter. Thinking about it now, it was probably actually margarine!
Sprained ankle? Bumped head? Grazed knee? Whack some butter on it! It’s a wonder I survived my childhood!
With the boys, I’ve been to the hospital so many times, at one point I even thought Bubba would get a wing named after him. He was always sticking something up his nose or falling over. He’s got a great scar on his forehead from having it glued from falling over his feet and hitting it on a wall. But my parents never took me to hospital for anything.
I remember one Saturday morning, I must have been the same age as Bubba was when he hit his head so about five or six-years old. I was going to my Nanna’s who lived at the other side of the city so it was two bus rides away and I was always excited to see her. In my rush to get to hers I ran along the path, tripped over my feet and headbutted a wall.
Now, me as a parent, I took Bubba down to A&E and got him checked out and his wound was glued. Back in the day what do you think happened with little me?
Despite having a lump the size of a gooses egg on my forehead, as soon as my Nanna saw me she said, ‘Ooh that needs some butter on that’! Delving into the fridge they went…
It makes no sense does it?
Does butter, or any sandwich filling for that matter, have any medicinal properties? Where does it stop? Slathering on egg mayonnaise for a swollen ankle? Rubbing jam onto a splinter? Dabbing a slice of ham on a cut? How about a slice of cucumber for tired eyes…no that one’s ok isn’t it?
I don’t know what their thinking behind it was and neither of my parents are here for me to say, ‘WHAT WERE YOU THINKING???’
Looking back I think there’s many reasons why it’s amazing I made it through my childhood. There was the Winter I almost got hypothermia building an igloo when it collapsed whilst I was inside it. My Mam found me and threw me in a hot bath calling me a ‘daft apeth’ – I was literally blue but I still stand by the fact it was an impressive build!
I went over the handlebars of my bike too many times to count and wear several scars like medals of childhood honour. I’ve fallen off walls, into walls, down hills on baking trays, out of trees. I grew up surrounded by boys so you either did what they did or you played alone so there were lots of cuts ad bruises but I have to say once I got past seven or eight the butter disappeared to be replaced by the venerated COLD COMPRESS and ‘hold that on it’ll be right’.
To a child, and me still when the need arises, a wet paper towel has magical properties doesn’t it?
I’m glad the tradition’s carrying on today, when Bubba was at primary school I lost track of the amount of times I either collected him with a wet paper towel clutched in his hand or an accident slip saying he’d fallen/hit himself/been hit and treatment was ‘a cold compress’ (wet paper towels!)
I think it’s a right of passage for every child to encounter a cold compress at some point and I know these days you can get those newfangled ice packs in first aid kits but nothing actually beats wetting a wadge of those scratchy blue paper towels and clinging to it until it’s a warm soggy mess does it?
In a way it’d be nice to go back to those days where everything can be solved or at least made to a bit feel better with a wet paper towel.
