Keep Calm and Carry On

DebE —  June 13, 2013 — Leave a comment

Contemporary rendering of a poster from the Un...

Contemporary rendering of a poster from the United Kingdom reading “Keep Calm and Carry On”, created during World War II. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Wow. I’ve seen this meme bandied about over the last couple of years… never bothered to look up its origin. But there you go. According to Wikipedia, the British Government popped it up on posters at the beginning of the Second World War, to help ease the concerns of the public… or rather, to tell the publc to “get over it”.

I was so sure it was a mother’s mantra.

It is, isn’t it?

Well, it sure was for me yesterday… and so I thought I’d share.

The inciting incident for this story happened back at the start of February… day after my book released, to be exact. I was heading out for dinner and a movie with a bunch of friends (absolutely nothing to do with my book launch, by the way, which I was very happy with… I usually like to quietly make my way in life until I can say BAM! Here I am!). It all started with my choice of footwear. Usually, when I go out, I wear my high heals. Lovely shoes (and I tend to only have one pair until they’re so worn I must replace them), but this time, I had decided to pull out an old pair of wedge-style shoes. Now, when wedges seemed to be all the rage last year or so I screwed up my face at them, because I think they look horrid — forgetting, of course, that I actually had a pair of my own. The difference is that the “classy” high heels with a filled in sole are just not my thing. These ones look like little pink sparkly ballet shoes; they are covered in beads (that were probably hand sewn on by some poor girl in India who didn’t get paid nearly enough, but I’m so grateful because I could actually afford them… I’m so sorry!), and they tie up my legs with pink ribbon… see… sometimes I’m a girl! Woah.

Anyway, recovering…

So, I was wearing these wedge-style shoes… I know, shoot me now.

After buying our tickets to Django Unchained, we crossed the road to the nearest Thai restaurant, and my wedge-style sole found the chipped edge of a broken bit of tarseal… and my ankle rolled.

Now, take a moment… if I had been wearing regular heals, my toe and heal would have landed either side of the imperfection in the road, and I would have been fine. If I’d been wearing flat shoes… I would have been fine.

Wedges.

Urgh!

Listen ladies! They’re not pretty, and they’re not worth it!

Anyway, not only did my ankle roll, but the side of my foot hit the road. Yeah. It hurt. I didn’t want to spoil the night, so I said nothing, ignored the throbbing pain over dinner, ignored the throbbing pain through the movie (highly enjoyable, by the way), and went home to sleep it off…

Then I got back into the regular routine of mothering, wifing, writing, working… etc.

Then, some time after said accident, I noticed something… Not only did my foot still hurt a lot of the time, but if I twisted it just so it clicked…. halfway up my foot. Now, if I look at the bone structure of a foot, it’s about where the metatarsal of my pinky toe meets the cuboid bones… so, possibly not clicking because of a broken bone, probably a tendon, or something… Anyway… I’m guessing I’ve done something.

So… now we get to yesterday…

Thing is, I decided a long time ago I ought to go see my doctor. But I hate making appointments with a toddler to tow along… they just. don’t. go. to. plan.

Nevertheless, I decided I had enough other things to chat to my Dr about, so I booked an appt. Thought I was pretty clever booking it straight after kindy-finish time, so I could get it done, get home and not interrupt any of my scheduled writing times during the week.

Yeah.

So, yesterday…

Wake up.

All the usual, dog out to toilet, feed dog/cats, make husband’s lunch, feed the child, feed myself, dress myself and the child, dog outside one more time, out the door, drop child to kindy, go to work…

Work… sucks.

End of work. Dash to car knowing someone (husband, actually) wanted me to do a last minute thing at work, but I can’t because I can’t be late for pick-up…. especially when I’ve booked an appointment after, never mind that they start charging the hourly rate per  minute…

Drive across town.

Arrive at kindy just on time.

Now, usually, the toddler has had his lunch and is sitting waiting for me when I arrive… but, I booked an appointment… he’s still eating.

Wait for him to eat last few spoonfuls. Wait for him to drink his water.

Gather up his bag and dash out to the car…

He’s dawdling, so I snap him up to move faster… and I smell something…

Now, usually, he does his business before we leave home in the morning, around morning tea time or after bedtime… lunch time, almost never… but… I’ve booked an appointment… it’s time to change things up.

Well, we’re running late. Report me if you must, but I shoved him in the car, drove to the carpark across the road from the Dr (thanks to The Warehouse for having free parking, and I would buy something every time I use your carpark like this, but I’m poor… I’ll make up for it one day promise), carried him across the road to the Dr’s offices, announced my arrival (just in time for my appt time, but thankfully I saw my Dr just taking the patient prior to me — phew! Small mercies), and dashed into the toilets to change a messy nappy…

Phew!

The rest wasn’t so bad.

In the waiting room… busy toddler (one of the receptionists even commented: “He’s very busy, isn’t he?”… they have no idea!), noisy toddler, but I had a moment where I didn’t have to be doing anything else! Wow…

See the Dr. Registered with ACC (NZ has a governement agency that helps out with the costs of accidents) and going to get an X-Ray some time to find out what I did to my foot. And got the wonderful, wonderful pills I need to function like a normal person on a particular few days per month (I have low platelets – if you wish to guess how that may affect a woman, go look it up).

Home. McD’s for lunch (and second lunch for toddler… sue me). Child to bed. Writing… wee!

Toddler awake. Bake cookies (biscuits, to us in NZ… but I didn’t want to confuse people) because I volunteered to be on supper duty for the local Writers’ Workshop… oh, yeah, and the previous president resigned this week (which I totally understand and hold no grudges – if she happens to read this…), and I was secretary, and no one else is keen to be president, so guess what… Yeah.

Dinner cooked. Eaten. Out the door with all the presidential stuff, and cookies…

And the meeting went alright, thank you.

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DebE

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Deb E was born in New Zealand’s North Island, but her parents corrected that within months, moving south to Dunedin and staying there. Childhood nights were spent falling asleep to cover versions of Cliff Richard and the Shadows and other Rock ’n Roll classics played by her father’s band, and days were spent dancing to 45 LPs. Many of her first writing experiences were copying down song lyrics. She graduated to scientific reports when she studied a nematophagus fungus in the Zoology department of the University of Otago, trading all traces of popularity for usefulness… then traded both for fiction. Mum of one human & four fur-babies.

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