When I was
seven I decided I’d like to become a postie when I grew up. My mother was
unimpressed. But then one day I watched the poor postie get a drenching in the
rain and changed my mind.
After that
it was a ballet dancer, then a teacher before I settled on working with
animals. I’ve always loved animals but freak out at the sight of needles and,
whenever I visit the SPCA, want to take them all home. Then I flunked biology so
that put an end to that.
All
throughout these career changes, my mum and poppa steadfastly said I would
become a journalist. My love of reading led me to have quite the imagination
which always gained 10 out of 10s for my stories which were subsequently read
out to the class. Likewise, every morning, without fail, I would stand and
conduct a long and elaborate morning talk, regaling the class and, likely
rendering them bored silly. God knows what I talked about but, no doubt, the
teacher knew she had a good half-hour up her sleeve to do the marking while I
waffled on.
Because
adults were telling me what I would become, I rebelled against it until I had
exhausted every other option. So, at 17, after finishing seventh form and,
unlike in the biology and maths departments, did well in English and photography,
reluctantly signed up for the three-year Waikato Bachelor of Mediarts degree/diploma
in journalism.
I loved it
and they were right – damnit.
So, it is
with caution that I discreetly steer my daughter toward a nursing career. It
has nothing to do with my own ambitions – I would make a terrible nurse – and I
don’t even know if the money is great but her sunny and caring disposition and
love of first aid would make her the perfect nurse. Her art work has also
gained admiration since kindy days so I have that all mapped out for her too.
In her nine
years she has undergone many a career change; after I took her to the hair salon,
she wanted to become a hair dresser, later changing to a wedding planner. At
one stage, upon returning from her dad’s, her and her twin bro decided they wanted
to own a building company called JJ’s (their initials), followed by a
restaurant under the same name and making all their favourite food.
I just roll
with it while harbouring my secret belief that she will make a great nurse and
artist on the side. However, the other day I couldn’t help myself.
She
mentioned a ‘piece of wood’ that was stuck in her finger from the mau rakau
stick at kapa haka that day and, on closer inspection, I noticed a sizeable
splinter.
“Off you
go, get the tweezers and we will try and get it out,” I said.
“Nooooo,”
she whinnied. “It will hurt!”
“Ok, well
you do it,” I suggested.
She
returned with the tweezers and, after a short while and with an exclamation of
glee, retrieved said splinter and held it up for me to see.
“See, you would
make a great nurse,” I said for the first time in several years.
“But then
I’d have to do surgery and cut people open,” she replied, no doubt referring to
Shortland Street.
“No, you
wouldn’t, there’s all types of nursing. You could work with new born babies or
on the children’s ward or become a Plunket nurse. Although I think your lovely bedside
manner would go unappreciated with babies – you’d be great with the elderly.”
“What would
I have to do?”
“Oh, you
know, bring them their meals, fluff up their pillows,” I glorified.
But she was
one step ahead: “Wouldn’t I have to change their adult nappies?”
“Uh –
maybe.”
“No, I’ll
work with babies then,” she decided.
I’ve no
doubt it will change a zillion more times and perhaps she will totally prove me
wrong but I’m still sitting smug in the belief that mothers know best. I just
won’t tell her that.
