My knees are callused, not smooth. They would win no prizes in a beauty contest; they do not resemble the elegant knees I see on adverts for shaving creams and epilators. But I think they’re important. They’re paediatrician knees. They’re the knees of somebody who spends hours of each day crawling around; playing peekaboo; pushing fire engines and chasing balls that are stuck under beds.
My shoes break readily across the instep, leaving white tracks across bright pink leather; scattering sequins as I squat down. Paediatrician shoes.
I spend a lot of my day crouching down; kneeling on my callused knees as I listen to chests and hearts; flexing my feet as I squat precariously in the gap between beds to talk to somebody; finding a stable position on the floor to take bloods.
Hospitals are scary places. They’re even more scary as a patient or a parent if the person caring for you is above your eye level; if their position of power is augmented by towering above you; if they are far too busy and important to spend time with you…
I didn’t think it was that important; I heard from @grangerkate and @Adsthepoet how it made them feel and I started thinking… A meeting with my supervisor where I sat on the lowest chair in the room; a meeting with a consultant where he sat behind a desk as I stood in front of it like a school child in the headmaster’s office…
It matters. It makes a difference. And I will embrace my paediatrician knees with pride on holiday this year.
Now, where’s the body lotion?