Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

I began writing this post a couple of weeks ago. The plan was to talk about ‘counting chickens’. You know, counting them before they hatch and the warning that comes with doing so. I was going to make reference to my baby boy’s sleeping and the temptation to start counting those chooks after one good night (which equates to getting up only once to feed).

But since the conception of that post things have changed a little in the back yard. The balance of gender within the family has shifted. Death has entered and burial ceremonies have been held. Earlier this week Daisy and Crash passed away.

Daisy and Crash were two of the lovely ladies in the chicken house. Daisy was the gregarious silky bantam; the sociable one who was keen to explore our vegie patch and our compost. She would come out to greet us and didn’t shy away too much when we approached her (though the thump of small Cars gumboots towards her made her a little more jumpy). Daisy was the explorer – in fact she went so far as to explore the park over our back fence and the nature strip outside our house a while back. Crash was given her name by nature of the fact that she often tumbled off the ramp half way through her descent from the pen, landing with a crash on the ground below.

Anyway, they were our little ladies and now they are no longer, thanks to a highly contagious chook disease (that I’ve been told will likely take Tree Trunk, the third girl, with it in the near future). This has been our son’s first exposure to dying and death and I have to say, he’s handling it well. There were no tears, though that would’ve been okay, even though he is a boy (KIDDING!!). Rather, father and son set about fetching their digging tools from the shed and digging a hole, or two, to place these not so soft and fluffy chickens in. We said a few words (there isn’t much to say to a bantam who has only been around for a few short months…) and filled in the holes.

My son didn’t say much after that, except to confirm Daisy’s departure later that night – ‘So mum….Daisy’s dead.’ “Yep. Bit sad, hey?’ ‘Yeah…’. There wasn’t a barrage of questions about life and death and what happens next, thank god, cos I don’t really have one of those speeches prepared. I wonder how long Tree Trunk will give me to whip one up…?

** In regard to ‘counting chickens’, the baby boy did not begin his transition into once nightly feeding after that one delicious night. No siree. Wouldn’t want to be too predictable, would he? That would just be boring. Perhaps the death of two bantams was a sign, a warning to me about the danger of counting chickens.

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Why is it that everyone else knows more about my children than me? Did I miss an important lecture or tutorial at which all knowledge about them and solutions for their problems, was imparted? Did I nod off at the wrong time or make the mistake of turning this valuable information into white noise?

Mia Freedman referred to it recently as ‘backseat parenting’ – when others generously impart their parenting wisdom on you, ready or not. Everyone seems to have an opinion – another parent, a non-parent (I like to refer to them as The Sane Ones), family, friend, stranger… There are experts everywhere! Aren’t we, the parents of the child who is up for analysis, so fortunate to be surrounded by such a wealth of knowledge and experience?

I don’t want to sound ungrateful – as a parent, support from others is crucial to survival. I often seek an opinion or some advice when it comes to working out my kids – my foggy, indecisive and often anxious mind doesn’t always permit the clearest of thoughts or rational problem solving. Plus, talking to someone else about an issue, whether it be a defiant preschooler or a windy baby, gives me an excuse to debrief  (otherwise known as whinging), and that, in all seriousness, is just as necessary to my sanity as getting practical help.

The thing is, some advice is sought and some is dished up, complete with feeding assistance (the spoon invariably overloaded and then reloaded as soon as it touches our lips). Some is offered out of a genuine desire to help and some is served with an icy cold side dish of know-it-all-ism. You know the people I’m talking about – they know everything about everything and believe that it is their duty to enlighten and educate the rest of us poor souls.

Parenting is trial and error, no matter what anyone says, published or otherwise. It can turn the most confident, capable and organised individual into a self-doubting, second guessing and balding shadow of a being, especially for those of us who are members of Control Freaks United. We absurdly assume that being parents, by nature of the fact that we have children, is qualification enough to know exactly what to do with our children and this ludicrous belief renders us highly vulnerable to the crushing effects of backseat parenting (with the exception of the Know It Alls).

So am I the least informed when it comes to my kids? Whilst my vulnerable inner child calls ‘maybe….’ in a pathetic whisper, I will stubbornly answer ‘NO!’, so that the backseat parents among us don’t succeed in wriggling their way into the Ford Focus drivers seat to send me tumbling down a slippery, prickly embankment.

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Breast is best, according to the experts, but gee it would be nice to have the power to transfer these breasts of mine to someone else for a day.

I am breastfeeding and proud of it. Proud in the knowledge that my breasts alone are able to sustain another human life. Proud that I am boosting my child’s health, present and future. Proud that this feeding has facilitated my recovery from pregnancy and birth (though the effectiveness of breastfeeding in vanishing stretch marks is yet to be demonstrated). But most of all I am proud that I am managing to make myself available to this child 24 hours a day, 7 days a week…ALL THE TIME. I’m on-call, on alert, on demand.

Proud, but somewhat resentful. Can’t I just have a wee break? I wasn’t feeling quite so disgruntled until recently, when a fellow mummy sighed, sighting new parent fatigue. I nodded enthusiastically and released a mammoth sigh of my own, setting myself up for a whinge about breastfeeding on demand and the broken sleep and limited independence it necessitated. That discussion never eventuated because my conversation partner went on to state that her baby fed like clockwork, every four hours, and that, with the assistance of her husband, she was able to sleep from 9pm til 4am. I was dumbfounded and insanely jealous. Her trick? Bottle feeding.

My breast pride melted away and I felt cheated. Why couldn’t I get that much sleep? Why couldn’t I just up and leave the house, not having to worry about being back within two hours in case my udder was required or requested? And remind me, why, why did I choose to breastfeed? Oh, that’s right, the health benefits, the cost benefits, the convenience. Convenience? I’ll tell you what would be convenient – to give my breasts to someone else for a day and get some rest!

I hadn’t really appreciated how physically and emotionally draining breastfeeding can be. It is a sacrifice, a selfless gift to my child. So to all breastfeeding women out there, charge your glasses. Here’s to us leaking, lumpy, squirty, sleepy dairy cattle. Three cheers! Cue chink of glasses and, of course, spilt milk.

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Do such people exist? People who claim to know what a baby is communicating, wanting and needing in the absence of speech and language? Certainly some profess to have such a skill, even write books that detail how to ‘read’ a baby. Well, I have discovered a whisperer much closer to home…in fact, in my home.

This baby whisperer hasn’t written any books…he cannot yet read books. He is four years old and attends kinder. He is good at puzzles and eating and he appears to know what my baby is communicating. Yes, my preschool son is a baby whisperer.

I didn’t notice at first, probably because my son has a talent for non-stop chatter and not all of it makes sense. As a consequence, my ears have adapted to perform the task of turning this incessant string of syllables into white noise, to reduce the risk of brain meltdown. Hence, I am not always aware of what he is trying to tell me.

‘I think he wants more milk mum.’

Initially I reacted as any breastfeeding-around-the-clock mother would to the suggestion that the baby wants more. ‘NO HE DOESN’T!’ An over reaction, perhaps. ‘He can’t want more, I only fed him an hour ago. Why does that have to be the answer every time he cries?!’

‘I think he’s tired mum.’

‘But he hasn’t yawned yet.’

‘He’s got a pain in his tummy mum.’

‘But I’ve burped him already.’

The cheek! My four year old telling me what the baby wants and needs! I am the mother of the baby and therefore I instinctively know what to do with it, don’t I? What does he think he’s playing at?

I ignored his suggestions to start with – my pride insisted so. But desperation gradually lowered my guard and I began to listen to him. He says he’s hungry? Fine, I’ll offer him my breast. He has a pain? Alright, I’ll do some more patting and rubbing. And on nearly every occasion my preschooler has been right, his suggestions resulting in a happier baby and more peaceful house.

How does he know? How does he do it? Is it luck? Guess work? Are my boys able to communicate in a way that is not available to me? Whatever the explanation, I’m pretty impressed and stoked. I briefly considered contacting Today Tonight, or maybe even A Current Affair to share my baby whispering child with the world, but decided against it. After all, I don’t want him to know that he is a better mummy to his brother than I am. My pride wouldn’t cope.

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Don’t cringe…this one isn’t about me.

It’s a precious commodity with many important functions: keeping lounge rooms warm, boiling water on the stove…  If it wasn’t for gas I’d be cold, hungry and certainly not soaking in the bath. The problem with gas is when it’s stored in a baby’s system and has trouble escaping. It gets trapped, not knowing whether to head north with some milk, or south with some mustard. It lingers midway, causing all sorts of pain for its host and his parents.

We sit him up straight (trying to keep his head from rolling off) and throw him over the shoulder, patting, rubbing, willing the gas to move. We lie him on his back and row the boat and cycle with his legs. We lie him on his tummy hoping to squish the gas forward or backward. We pace and brace our nerves, calling on any morsels of patience that could be tucked away or stored deep within. And this is during the day.

At night I plead with the gas, begging it to make a hasty exit so that my sanity doesn’t. When minutes pass with no burp or pop, I get a little impatient. ‘It’s cold and this isn’t funny. I’m giving you two more minutes to make yourself scarce and then I’m going back to bed!’ I can almost hear the gas bubbles laughing as they bounce around my baby’s insides…I think I may have to work on my negotiation skills.

In searching for answers to our gassy problem (because all parenting challenges have definitive solutions, don’t they? Just ask any of those books…) my husband managed to offer a reason that was sensible, possible and cruel. ‘Your milk comes out too fast. He’s choking on it.’ ‘And what am I supposed to do about that? He’s lucky that he’s got so much milk!’ Now, without wanting to offend any males who may be reading, I do believe that my husband’s solution could only have come from a man. ‘You need a valve.’ We’re currently googling it and if our search reveals no such item for fast flowing feeders like myself, then we may have found our new business venture. Stay tuned.

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