Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
The new year. Sharon gulped as it dawned on her that the entire committee, bar the president, was going to be made up of parents from the 3 year old class. All first timers at preschool. “Known unknowns”. With the exception of Rebecca. Fucking. Rebecca.
Passive aggressive bitches with scores to settle seemed to be a special sub-species of woman who would inevitably find themselves on a kinder committee 3 years after giving up their careers. Or 3 years after going part time. Or 3 years after choosing full time child care. It didn’t matter which choice had been made after the arrival of the first child, the result with chicks like Rebecca was the same.
Yes, the previous committee had been brimming with A types. All women, not a dad within cooee. My fucking KINGDOM for a dad, Sharon silently prayed. Loud, opinionated, flippant females. Most of them were a laugh riot with hearts of gold and a passion for chardonnay. A couple were positively giddy with power. When Rebecca meekly suggesting the sandpit be covered over night to decrease the instances of cat shit being eaten the following morning she was greeted with disdain and sarcasm. “Oh yeah. Let’s do that. Then, let’s wrap our precious ones in breathable bubble wrap before we let them out of the house. In our day, we ate cat shit every fucking day, and we turned out fine!!” – Squishing down a meek lady, it turns out, possibly not in the spirit of a committee who existed to run the day to day operations and processes of the first foray into education.
I mean, meek chicks concerned with the consumption of cat excrement just weren’t funny, were they? First, it’s the sandpit. Then, the edges of the Steiner approved building blocks would be sanded down, preventing injury. Finally, cordial would be outlawed altogether, thanks to these do gooders. And now, now Rebecca was president, and she had some scores to settle, wrongs to right, a year of being dissed to turn around. Sharon poured a pint of sav blanc. She could smell a dramatic year in the offing.
Small decision
“She’s been in the same position for at least 6 hours. I’m sorry, but I really think we need to move her.” Anthony, the nurse with the kind eyes and easy charm, had a good point.
When you’d popped in that morning to give a twirl in your fancy outfit, Mum hadn’t budged. Not a grunt, flicker or glance. No grin. No “Jesus Mel, your tits are out for all to see, aren’t they?!”. Nothin’. No, she sat propped up in the hospital bed, seemingly snoozing. She looked at total peace.
Well that was around 10:30am. It was now about 7pm. Visitors had come in and out between Mum’s bedside and the visitor’s lounge all day. Afterwards, you’d discovered she’d managed a few half sleepy smiles, approving murmurs and one “You girls are so beautiful”. This, after sitting up to a full breakfast at 7am.
“Yeah, that’s a bit long, isn’t it? Go for it”, you reply. Bed sores, you’d heard, were not grouse. Moving that sleepy lady seemed like a no brainer.
And that, my loves, is the moment you so badly wish you could take back. “Na, leave her Anthony. She’s comfortable”, you’d say. Yes, she’d likely have a numb arse cheek. She may, however, have lived a bit longer if her C2 hadn’t imploded upon being moved. Despite best practice, correct hospital procedure, with two nurses and a Philadelphia neck brace all in play, Mum’s cancerous vertebrae had turned to powder, and all you could do was watch and wish you’d said anything else but yes.