“At least it’s not a tattoo,” she comforts. I imagine major complications like pain, sleepless nights detracting from her studies, and infection. How is it not being a tattoo supposed to bring me comfort?
Funny how it’s the offspring trying to comfort the parent. It used to be the other way round. I’m amazed she had the guts to do it. Especially in the light of the barrage of disapproval and better judgements I sent her way.
Still, she went off on her own on the bus since I refused to go, or taxi, hoping she wouldn’t bother. I couldn’t see how she’d cope with being shot in the ear when a needle in the gum at the dentist’s is enough to make her vomit and pass out.
But she did. And I admire her spunk and independence and try not to be the one who’s a snivelling wreck at the thought of it. I had enough of a job keeping myself together when they had needles in the legs as babies; I’m dammed if I’m going to put myself through that again over voluntary piercings. I just wait and worry instead.
Then she comes home again with a beam across her face and steel through her blue and lumpy ear. I do my best to make admiring noises while trying not to look. And a little later I can’t help tucking her up, offer soothing sympathies and administer painkillers to ease the stress headache.
Only this time, instead giving her Calpol like when she was a baby, it’s Ibuprofen, and it’s me who’s taking it!