toe socks and panties

Yesterday I had to go to the dentist. In a foreign country. (As if going to the dentist in your own country isn’t bad enough!) From what the dentist in Australia had told me, I needed immediate root canal work, or an extraction. I was afraid. Very afraid.

(The language barrier reminded me of when I was in Korea last time and I had to take my son to the hospital here as he had a bad stomach bug. As the receptionist and nurses didn’t speak much English, by the time I got to the doctor, I was basically playing charades. First word, second syllable.. sounds like ‘ouch’. I was clutching my stomach and moaning, acting out how my son was feeling. (I cringe at the memory.) The doctor watches me go through this, then calmly asks me, “Right. When was his last defecation?”  Uh.. his last defe-what?)

So this time, when the nurses and receptionist didn’t speak much English at all, although I didn’t get a chance to explain to them what my dentist back home had told me about what needed to be done, I didn’t resort to charades. But when the nurse sat me down and started arranging all the drills and picks and instruments of torture dentistry, I worked myself up into a mild state of panic. Until I looked across at the man reclining on the chair beside mine. I could only see his feet (and because in a lot of places in Korea you have to take your shoes off, I could only see his socks.) Yes, the man was wearing toe socks! I no longer needed happy gas. I was giggling.

Long story short.. I didn’t need root canal work or an extraction, merely a filling. The dentist even offered to pull out my son’s wobbly front tooth. Amazingly, he agreed. No tears! (Until, however, we were outside putting our shoes back on, and I was raving on deliriously happy, “Ohh I’m just so relieved I only got a filling! I didn’t even need to get any teeth ripped out or anything!” Then I looked down at my son, who was biting down on gauze to stop the bleeding in his brand new gap, and I realised silence is pretty much golden. (Unlike my filling, which is pearly white.)

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Last Sunday I went to the ‘Yang’s Book Club. Three Canadians, an Irish lass, a Pom and an Aussie (me). We discussed/praised/pulled apart “Tuesdays with Morrie”. (I felt sorry for Morrie, after some of them basically called him a narcissistic old man who was almost 80 anyway, and what did he expect? For the record, I liked the book and the message.)  Halfway through the discussions (and the two bottles of wine) and in amongst the conversations about “Which ‘Sex in the City’ character are you, really?) my son pipes up with, “Mummy’s had something published.” I cringed. They laughed. I explained it away as just some little story in a book. My son goes on to say proudly, “It was called ‘Whose panties are these?'” More laughter. More cringing. I could read their faces which were saying things like, “Hey, if you want to write that sort of stuff……”  I fell over myself backtracking and explaining it was just a funny story in a perfectly legitimate compilation of amusing travel anecdotes from women writers around the world. Thanks, son.

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And as I sit here typing this… I have just tucked my little boy into bed. Story’s done. Prayers are done. Cuddles are done. His voice just wafted in from his room to mine.. “I love you forever Mum. You’re the greatest Mum I’ve ever had.”

Yep, no doubt about it. He’s the greatest son I’ve ever had, too.

🙂