There are some principles in life that can generally be
relied upon. They may not be hard and fast laws, but as a rule of thumb one can
generally trust that what goes up must come down, what goes forth will come
back and what goes in must come out. My belief in the latter, however, has been
sorely tested this year.
One particular incident springs to mind when considering
the reliability of this principle. It all started during breakfast when one of
the little girls got up from her seat and started prancing around as if
possessed of the proverbial ants in her pants, a pained look etched across her
face. ‘Matron, Matron, I really have
to go to the loo.’
I gave the required permission and she scuttled off. Ten
minutes later the whole scenario repeated itself, at which I raised an eyebrow.
When the curtain rose on the same drama a third time, I began to get
suspicious.
Being equipped with a mere Art History degree I sought
advice from someone further up the medical food chain, before quickly escorting
the little girl over to the doctors. Having been instructed by the nurses that
she would need to have drunk plenty beforehand in order to provide a urine
sample, I took a water bottle with me. The nurses sent her off to the bathroom
to provide her contribution. No joy. ‘Matron, I can't do a wee-wee in the cup.'
'Yes, you can, Sweetie. Just hold it underneath you as
you go.'
‘Oh, oh, oh, but what if I miss it?’
‘You won’t, just give it another try.’
A minute later she reappeared, still unable to produce
her pot of gold. By this stage I was unsure whether it was the suspected
bladder infection itself, the pressure of having to aim at a target - a feat
that does not come naturally to us girls (nor some boys for that matter…!) - or
the sheer fact she'd already been to the loo three times during breakfast.
Whichever the cause, it was time for me to provide a solution. And that, dear
reader, is how I found myself crouched beside the loo, with a water bottle in
one hand being directly administered to her mouth, and a plastic cup in the
other hand, at the other end, hoping to catch the first fruits of the
endeavour. Working on the afore stated principle that what goes in must
eventually find its way out, I decided that the simplest plan of action was to
treat the child as if she was a giant version of a Baby Wee-Wee doll. I don’t know if your childhood was blessed with
one of these toys, but back in the good old days you simply squeezed the dinky
toy bottle into the doll’s mouth, the water trickled down a concealed internal tube
and then made its presence known at the other end. I am reliably informed by
Google that, as with all our simple childhood pleasures, the Baby Wee-Wee has evolved and not only
yelps at you when it needs to go, but is also now designed with much more “vividly”
realised nether regions. In fact, I was horrified to find out that with one
mutation of the Baby Wee-Wee, the Paul Drink&Wet, you are required to
squeeze the tummy of the doll in order to produce the piddle. Do spare a thought
for the poor real children of girls who were given that little number to play
with when it comes to potty training time!
In my humble opinion the simplest toys are always the
best, and in this instance I was proved right. Both you and the Child
Protection authorities will be relieved to hear that no tummy pressing was
required as the water squirted in at the top end did eventually make its way
out of the bottom end and into the cup. However, I still can’t quite see the
principle as infallible. Many will tell you that the extent to which you give
or put in to an endeavour dictates how much you receive in dividends. Indeed,
one of my mother’s favourite and oft-quoted maxims is that you reap what you
sow, yet I’m learning that this doesn’t always naturally follow in quite the
way I’d like it to. If I’m being truthful, I’ve found myself really quite
disheartened on occasions where I’ve put a lot of time and effort into fun
activities with the children only for none of them to appreciate it. There’s
nothing that quite kills your inner warm and fuzzy feeling like a good whinging
round of, ‘Why won’t you let us do it for longer?’, ‘How come he got a bigger
slice?’, ‘Why do you never read us more than a chapter?’ I often think to
myself that a simple “thank you” would suffice and my sense of well-being would
be easily appeased, but a simple “thank you” is not always offered.
A friend recently recounted to me how he had helped a
girl he knew only slightly move house. It ended up taking him far more time
than he had anticipated and he admitted to me that, despite her effusive
gratitude, he didn’t feel that the level of benefits received was anywhere near
the amount of effort put in. This got me thinking that it must take more than
registered thankfulness on the part of the beneficiary to make what we do in
life feel worthwhile. In fact, it probably has nothing to do with the reaction
of the beneficiary and everything to do with our own attitude to giving. If we
take the Karma-esque view that we will receive in direct and obvious proportion
to what we give, as soon as the benefits fail to materialise we will give up on
the giving of ourselves. However, if we choose to find our cosy sense of inner
satisfaction in the knowledge that what we did needed doing if the world is to
be a better place, then perhaps we won’t be so disheartened when the world
itself doesn’t recognise this.
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