Reincarnation 2
You may have been asking yourselves what my last post had to do with doormats. I certainly was, in the wee small hours(why it should have occurred to me then I cannot tell. Obviously my life is so full of amazing events that I must relive them when I should be sleeping.) The answer is, it had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with doormats! There was not a single mention of a doormat, so I offer my apologies to all offended articles. I reposted the wrong piece so here is the one I intended to post, slightly reworked.
Strictly speaking, reincarnation is rebirth as a different form of life but I've often thought I might be reincarnated as a door mat, which, though inanimate, sees many events throughout its life. Thinking about it more deeply in the small hours of the morning I recognised that there are many different forms of door mat. Would it be better to be an indoor mat or an outdoor mat? There are pros and cons for each.
Outdoor mats are hardy creatures, exposed to the elements, surrounded by the sights and sounds of Nature, rough, tough no-nonsense characters. External mats are not given to soul-searching and philosophising; they are practical, straight-talking individuals for whom there is no middle way. They lack imagination, it is true, and see all things as black or white. There's no sitting on the fence for the outdoor mat. They are loyal and hard-working and ask little in return other than a good beating now and then, not because they're masochistic but to relieve them of their burden of dust and the extraneous bits of Nature that have escaped from birds, trees, flowers and people's footwear.
Outdoor mats may be made from rubber which is hard-wearing but neither absorbent nor particularly attractive. Metal mats are not quite pukka; they're useful for scraping mud off boots but they are the untouchables of the community of external mats. They look as though they have come from a giant's grill pan and can sometimes be found supporting one of their more appealing cousins. Coir matting looks smart and is the only natural fibre resistant to salt water damage, which makes sense considering its provenance.
Indoor mats are quite distinct from their outdoor relatives. They live in protected environments and are usually constructed from softer, more colourful materials. Often they have messages printed on them – PLEASE WIPE YOUR PAWS (can dogs read?) THE BIG HOUSE, (boasting or ironic?) WE LIVE HERE (and everybody knows who WE are, don't they?) accompanied by pictures of dogs, fish, birds, children. I wouldn't want to have WELCOME written on me; I'm not like that but I suppose I wouldn't have a choice in the matter.
On balance I'd rather be an indoor mat than an outdoor mat. I don't think I'd like to be a shop door mat or one that fits in a car well or sits next to the cooker. I'd like to be either plain but in a pretty colour or patterned with flowers. My favourite situation would be just inside the front door of a really tidy house with no children or pets and considerate visitors who would remove their shoes before entering.
Showing posts with label re-post. Show all posts
Showing posts with label re-post. Show all posts
Friday, 23 March 2012
Thursday, 22 March 2012
Of doormats and reincarnation
This is the first post I wrote on reincarnation in May 2009
If you consider yourself to be of a delicate disposition you may not wish to read on. However, if you have now or ever have had intimate dealings with any kind of mammal you will understand the rationale for this post. (I'm sure rationale is far too grand a word for this but I like it . . . )
Through the years of bearing babies and rearing toddlers, followed by the decades of teaching young children while at the same time breeding cats and keeping company with a variety of dogs, I have come to realise that ordure has played a significant role in my life. It was not something I had ever considered when I was growing up. My sister's babies were neat and clean and cuddly. I realise now that she was very careful to spare me the truth and only encouraged me to change wet nappies. Fifteen years older than me, she was always protective.
The first days of a baby's life open a new mother's eyes – and nose – to a different way of life. Controlling the urge to throw up over her first-born (second and subsequent babies don't provoke the same reactions) and overcoming the desire to turn away and plead for someone else to take over, she learns the delicate art of cleaning and making comfortable the small helpless being she so rapturously conceived nine months earlier. The rosy glow of imagining a sweet-smelling baby dressed in adorable clothes gurgling happily into the beatifically smiling face of a relaxed and beautiful mother disappears like a hapless, misplaced snowflake in August. The mirage is replaced by the reality of a baby that excretes at least twice what he ingests and 'possets' (that's the polite term for 'sicks up') several times a day and night over his hands, his several daily changes of attire, his bed, the furry toy bought on the day of his birth and any unfortunate adult in the vicinity, usually his exhausted, sleep-deprived, tearful mother.
Matters improve of course as the baby grows into toddlerhood. It's always a good idea to greet your child soon after she wakes and not agree with your spouse that it's lovely when she amuses herself while you enjoy a lie-in and consider the possibility of a sibling or two for her. Undoubtedly she is entertaining herself, undressing herself, removing her nappy, spreading the contents over herself, the bedding and every other thing within reach (no point in hoping the nappy will be just wet). Having finished that task she has set about deconstructing the cot and it is a little disconcerting when you enter your precious offspring's room to wonder where she can possibly have got to until movement under the mattress beneath the base gives you a clue. When the little tot plays in the garden it's quite useful to have a dog about the place which can be blamed for influencing the child to defaecate on the grass. More experienced matrons snort derisively as they explain that all infants do this and follow that information with a knowing and slightly malicious, 'Just you wait . . . ' Sure enough, worse will follow. At least when nappies are still being worn everything that leaves the tiny body is more or less contained. Training pants are the next important stage but it seems that all your infant is trained to do is to treat them as a portable potty. Potties are wonderful toys, headwear being a favourite deployment – not so good after having been used for their intended purpose, though.
Having finally learnt what to do, and where, there is a tiresome period when your little person must visit every convenience in every building you pass. Possibly he is searching for the gold standard in lavatories/loos/toilets. I'm told that the way to teach a boy to aim straight is to put a ping pong ball in the lavatory pan and encourage him to hit it with his golden shower. I have not been told what should happen thereafter. Are parents expected to carry a supply of these white spheres? Apparently not; I've no knowledge of any male who manages consistently to place bladder contents completely in the correct receptacle – there aren't enough ping pong balls in the world.
Cats and dogs present different challenges to humans. House cats that use litter trays are relatively easy. A scoop removes the soiled litter. Fastidious creatures that they are they help their humans to maintain high sanitary standards for, if dissatisfied, they will make their own arrangements and you may be sure it will be somewhere you would not choose. Dogs can be trained to use a particular patch of the garden but the excrement remains where deposited until removed by someone. In our family this job is known as 'de-lumping the garden' and when we had children living at home they could be persuaded occasionally to undertake this task. At other times I did it. Now they are grown and flown but we still have dogs and their leavings must be cleared away. It has fallen to me to take on this duty full-time because as Barry says, 'You're so good at it.' Flatterer!
Thus, after so many years of shovelling s*it I know that, if I were to be reincarnated I would return as a Chinese Night Soil Collector. It is said that every third person in the world is Chinese – and I was my parents' third child. Can't wait!!
If you consider yourself to be of a delicate disposition you may not wish to read on. However, if you have now or ever have had intimate dealings with any kind of mammal you will understand the rationale for this post. (I'm sure rationale is far too grand a word for this but I like it . . . )
Through the years of bearing babies and rearing toddlers, followed by the decades of teaching young children while at the same time breeding cats and keeping company with a variety of dogs, I have come to realise that ordure has played a significant role in my life. It was not something I had ever considered when I was growing up. My sister's babies were neat and clean and cuddly. I realise now that she was very careful to spare me the truth and only encouraged me to change wet nappies. Fifteen years older than me, she was always protective.
The first days of a baby's life open a new mother's eyes – and nose – to a different way of life. Controlling the urge to throw up over her first-born (second and subsequent babies don't provoke the same reactions) and overcoming the desire to turn away and plead for someone else to take over, she learns the delicate art of cleaning and making comfortable the small helpless being she so rapturously conceived nine months earlier. The rosy glow of imagining a sweet-smelling baby dressed in adorable clothes gurgling happily into the beatifically smiling face of a relaxed and beautiful mother disappears like a hapless, misplaced snowflake in August. The mirage is replaced by the reality of a baby that excretes at least twice what he ingests and 'possets' (that's the polite term for 'sicks up') several times a day and night over his hands, his several daily changes of attire, his bed, the furry toy bought on the day of his birth and any unfortunate adult in the vicinity, usually his exhausted, sleep-deprived, tearful mother.
Matters improve of course as the baby grows into toddlerhood. It's always a good idea to greet your child soon after she wakes and not agree with your spouse that it's lovely when she amuses herself while you enjoy a lie-in and consider the possibility of a sibling or two for her. Undoubtedly she is entertaining herself, undressing herself, removing her nappy, spreading the contents over herself, the bedding and every other thing within reach (no point in hoping the nappy will be just wet). Having finished that task she has set about deconstructing the cot and it is a little disconcerting when you enter your precious offspring's room to wonder where she can possibly have got to until movement under the mattress beneath the base gives you a clue. When the little tot plays in the garden it's quite useful to have a dog about the place which can be blamed for influencing the child to defaecate on the grass. More experienced matrons snort derisively as they explain that all infants do this and follow that information with a knowing and slightly malicious, 'Just you wait . . . ' Sure enough, worse will follow. At least when nappies are still being worn everything that leaves the tiny body is more or less contained. Training pants are the next important stage but it seems that all your infant is trained to do is to treat them as a portable potty. Potties are wonderful toys, headwear being a favourite deployment – not so good after having been used for their intended purpose, though.
Having finally learnt what to do, and where, there is a tiresome period when your little person must visit every convenience in every building you pass. Possibly he is searching for the gold standard in lavatories/loos/toilets. I'm told that the way to teach a boy to aim straight is to put a ping pong ball in the lavatory pan and encourage him to hit it with his golden shower. I have not been told what should happen thereafter. Are parents expected to carry a supply of these white spheres? Apparently not; I've no knowledge of any male who manages consistently to place bladder contents completely in the correct receptacle – there aren't enough ping pong balls in the world.
Cats and dogs present different challenges to humans. House cats that use litter trays are relatively easy. A scoop removes the soiled litter. Fastidious creatures that they are they help their humans to maintain high sanitary standards for, if dissatisfied, they will make their own arrangements and you may be sure it will be somewhere you would not choose. Dogs can be trained to use a particular patch of the garden but the excrement remains where deposited until removed by someone. In our family this job is known as 'de-lumping the garden' and when we had children living at home they could be persuaded occasionally to undertake this task. At other times I did it. Now they are grown and flown but we still have dogs and their leavings must be cleared away. It has fallen to me to take on this duty full-time because as Barry says, 'You're so good at it.' Flatterer!
Thus, after so many years of shovelling s*it I know that, if I were to be reincarnated I would return as a Chinese Night Soil Collector. It is said that every third person in the world is Chinese – and I was my parents' third child. Can't wait!!
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