What the hell am I complaining
for? Sure, I missed out on my holiday in
the sun; poolside cocktails, breakfast buffets and late night turndowns, but I’m
not the one with the limp wrist (ooh err!).
Poor old Waltzie should be the
one complaining! She’s the one who got
bowled over backwards and ended up snapping both ulna and radius like les carottes en julienne during the
first days of her overseas jaunt. She’s
the one who had to be whacked-out on ketamine, slapped in heavy plaster and
denied a bath, a holiday, gymnastics, bike riding, swimming, writing with her
dominant hand, scratching her nose, rock-climbing, tree-climbing, social-climbing,
skateboarding, scooting, football, basketball, dodgeball, pinball or a date to
the ball!
It’s Waltzie who should be the
one screaming ‘foul play’, but apart from an hour or so of some pretty piercing
lunatic screeching, we’ve hardly heard a peep out of her. An early start, a cramped car ride, two plane
trips, five hours in a hospital waiting room and another four waiting to go
into theatre - all with a smashed wrist – and her thermonuclear disposition
remained with nary a quiver.
The following day, she emerged
from her prolonged, drug-induced sleeping beauty act as her usual, patient,
trusting, self-assured and assuring self.
And that’s how she’s been ever since.
Meanwhile, Mrs D and I moan and
complain of our lack of tropical downtime, and fail to recognise the contrast of
Waltzie’s predicament compared with other children around us who shriek and whine
tirelessly over splinters in fingers or grazes on knees. We are too preoccupied with our own material
loss to rejoice in this special individual who makes for us a holiday … every
day. We are so proud of you, Waltzie. Thank you for you.
There's certainly just cause for complaint ... she just doesn't
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