Read Online The Anti-Cool Girl by Rosie Waterland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rosie Waterland
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it came to my special place. Shedidnât make me feel ashamed and didnât embarrass me with a talk about my âbodyâ; she just let me figure things out for myself, in a healthy, private way. Which I did. Many, many times. I donât think I actually saw one episode of Rugrats that year, but, thanks to Mum, I certainly took care of business.
Your dad will finally die, and youâll be relieved.
When I was eight years old, I came to the sad realisation that I was never going to be one of those incredible kids on the news who manages to call the authorities in a time of crisis. Like those freak hero toddlers who can barely talk but somehow call an ambulance when their mum has an unexpected seizure. (And thereâs always time pressure, like oil boiling on the stove that would have burned the whole house down if the kid hadnât been so calm and brilliant and skilled with a phone.) There are even miracle dogs that have managed to alert the appropriate authorities when their owners are choking on their frozen meals for one.
I was always so impressed by those feel-good, time-filler packages on the news, and assumed that if ever faced with the same kind of âitâs all up to you nowâ scenario involving an incapacitated adult, I would handle the situation with skill and aplomb.
So it was with a heavy heart that I was forced to accept I was not a freak hero toddler. I wasnât even a miracle dog. Because when I was eight, I saw my grandpa fall over, I was the only person who could help, and I froze.
There is something extremely unsettling about seeing an old person fall over. When a young person falls over itâs funny, if not a bit cringe-worthy. But when an old person falls over, itâs just sad. It makes even the most well adjusted among us look for some kind of way out. I know for certain, even if they donât admit it, that there are many people on this earth who have suddenly pretended to be extremely interested in their fingernails when an old person stacks it in their vicinity.
But even worse than being an adult trying to handle the social torture that is an old person falling over, is being a kid trying to handle the social torture that is an old person falling over. When youâre that young, you still think picking your nose in public is okay so long as you use the proper etiquette â you sure as hell donât know the appropriate action to take when an elderly person does something very sad and embarrassing in front of you.
I had hoped that when faced with a situation that could almost certainly end up with me being a hero on the local news, I would rise to the challenge. Instead, as my grandpa was flailing on the kitchen floor, I panicked and woke up my dad. That decision would result in my grandpa ending up in hospital, and my dad ending up in the morgue.
It was school holidays, so Rhiannon and I had made our usual pilgrimage to Tumut. Other kids went to the Gold Coast; we went to hang out with two drunk guys in a town with no McDonaldâs.
Even though Dad lived with his father in what was essentially a pub disguised as a house, Mum continued to send us to stay there. It was like being sent to a scotch-soaked prison. We would spend our days watching Dad and Grandpa get uncontrollably drunk, praying they wouldnât suggest going out in public. (The best we could hope for was getting through the week without having to walk down the street with someone who only had a fifty-fifty chance of staying upright.)
Every holiday was essentially a run-out-the-clock situation. I would spend each trip trying to keep my toxic butterflies in check, counting down the days until I could go home and not be on the constant verge of nervous vomit.
Now, because I was stuck in the kid equivalent of Leaving Las Vegas, my entire life became consumed by this new toy I had (which Iâm ninety-nine percent sure my dad had stolen for me). It was a closed flower, but when you
Your dad will finally die, and youâll be relieved.
When I was eight years old, I came to the sad realisation that I was never going to be one of those incredible kids on the news who manages to call the authorities in a time of crisis. Like those freak hero toddlers who can barely talk but somehow call an ambulance when their mum has an unexpected seizure. (And thereâs always time pressure, like oil boiling on the stove that would have burned the whole house down if the kid hadnât been so calm and brilliant and skilled with a phone.) There are even miracle dogs that have managed to alert the appropriate authorities when their owners are choking on their frozen meals for one.
I was always so impressed by those feel-good, time-filler packages on the news, and assumed that if ever faced with the same kind of âitâs all up to you nowâ scenario involving an incapacitated adult, I would handle the situation with skill and aplomb.
So it was with a heavy heart that I was forced to accept I was not a freak hero toddler. I wasnât even a miracle dog. Because when I was eight, I saw my grandpa fall over, I was the only person who could help, and I froze.
There is something extremely unsettling about seeing an old person fall over. When a young person falls over itâs funny, if not a bit cringe-worthy. But when an old person falls over, itâs just sad. It makes even the most well adjusted among us look for some kind of way out. I know for certain, even if they donât admit it, that there are many people on this earth who have suddenly pretended to be extremely interested in their fingernails when an old person stacks it in their vicinity.
But even worse than being an adult trying to handle the social torture that is an old person falling over, is being a kid trying to handle the social torture that is an old person falling over. When youâre that young, you still think picking your nose in public is okay so long as you use the proper etiquette â you sure as hell donât know the appropriate action to take when an elderly person does something very sad and embarrassing in front of you.
I had hoped that when faced with a situation that could almost certainly end up with me being a hero on the local news, I would rise to the challenge. Instead, as my grandpa was flailing on the kitchen floor, I panicked and woke up my dad. That decision would result in my grandpa ending up in hospital, and my dad ending up in the morgue.
It was school holidays, so Rhiannon and I had made our usual pilgrimage to Tumut. Other kids went to the Gold Coast; we went to hang out with two drunk guys in a town with no McDonaldâs.
Even though Dad lived with his father in what was essentially a pub disguised as a house, Mum continued to send us to stay there. It was like being sent to a scotch-soaked prison. We would spend our days watching Dad and Grandpa get uncontrollably drunk, praying they wouldnât suggest going out in public. (The best we could hope for was getting through the week without having to walk down the street with someone who only had a fifty-fifty chance of staying upright.)
Every holiday was essentially a run-out-the-clock situation. I would spend each trip trying to keep my toxic butterflies in check, counting down the days until I could go home and not be on the constant verge of nervous vomit.
Now, because I was stuck in the kid equivalent of Leaving Las Vegas, my entire life became consumed by this new toy I had (which Iâm ninety-nine percent sure my dad had stolen for me). It was a closed flower, but when you
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