Husk

Today it was warm. Struggling out of your winter coat warm. The blazing sunshine waking us from wintery hibernation. This is lovely, except that my skin has become husk like and the thought of baring any is not appealing.

Midwifing = dry, sore, chapped, battered hands. It's all the handwashing. It's brutal. The skin around my nails is particularly bad. When I lived in Sri Lanka whenever we got together as a group we would discuss handwashing (srubbing brush versus slapping the wet clothes against a flat stone) and tea making methods. Get a group of student midwives together and we discuss placentas and what hand creams we are using. This is my current selection, which I seal in by sleeping in dainty white cotton gloves. It's very glam.

This state of affairs pains me as I am very proud of my hands. I have large palms and thin, strong fingers. I have half moons at the base of my nails (inherited from my great granny Flora, as my grandad was fond of telling me). One of the greatest compliments I ever received was that I am practical. My hands feel at the core of this. My chosen craft relies heavily on them. I don't want old lady hands. I'm at the stage where I'm about to try the cream we recommend for breastfeeding mothers to use on cracked nipples - the really hard stuff. Let's hope it works, or I may have to start wearing dainty gloves at all times.