Careers

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.