A Bottle-A-Day-Bourbon-Drinking-Chain-Smoker

A Bottle-A-Day-Bourbon-Drinking-Chain-Smoker

On Sunday Molly returned from a two week scout Jamboree. It was good to have her back safe at home where we can suffocate her with love and attention so she never wants to go away for that long again.

To leave an eleven year old in the care of people we barely know for two weeks is a difficult thing, but not to let her go would have been even more difficult.

What she experienced was something I imagine not many eleven year old girls would have the opportunity to experience. At her age I was too worried about where I was going to fit another Donny Osmond poster on my bedroom wall or if I knew all the words to ‘Love Hurts’ by Nazareth.  In case you had any thoughts about giving judgmental comments on my taste in music I am well aware of my status as a ‘music tragic’ thank you.

Abseiling down walls or doing an obstacle course through mud was the last thing on my mind. I kind of regret that now, when I see how much Molly enjoys it and how much she gets from it.

To say she walked in looking tired and dirty kind of understates how she really looked. It was more of a shuffle in, while doing her best impersonation of a bottle-a-day-bourbon-drinking-chain-smoker. Thank god looks can be deceiving because the girl behind the looks returned more grown up and mature than when she left, if that was possible.  I now have glimpses of the young, super capable woman she is becoming and I am proud. A hot shower and a good night’s sleep would fix the appearance.

We had to put her bags outside and hose them down. Two weeks living in a dust bowl doing challenges through mud pools had taken its toll.

In the middle of the chaos of bags, dirt and gear the stiches Pete had in his arm, after having a mole cut out earlier in the week, came undone.

Molly’s clean-up was forgotten while the girls and I ran around the house tearing apart all the first aid kits (six of them) to find steri-strips. Too say it was a calm ordered search would be, well, lying. I was frantic and I remember a lot of very loud talking.

I got my Dr Oz on and managed to pulled the hole, the size of a small country, in Pete’s arm together all the while cursing the doctor who obviously missed the class on how to tie stitches correctly when he was at med school.

The three ring circus that the afternoon very quickly became was soon forgotten and buried in the pleasure we felt having Molly home safe and sound.

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Molly_Funnel_Auckland_Blog

 

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