Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

Could I be that parent?

My Big Boy enters the realm of Big Schooldom next year (cue massive sigh of relief from somewhere…surely not me?) and orientation sessions have begun. I should start by saying that my husband and I are the salmon of the ‘when to send your children to school’ river- our boy will be starting school at the fragile but boistrous age of four. I mention that to excuse him from any bad behavior or failure to thrive at big school. It’s always useful to have excuses for your children at the ready – eases the guilt somewhat. Anyway, last week I psyched the both of us up for a 45 minute P.E lesson with Rosie. I had admirable, anxious-parent-of-a-new-school-kid plans to get there in plenty of time so that we could both be calm, collected and definitely not the last to walk into the big, open gymnasium. But, as life seems to roll at present, we screeched to a halt outside the school fence with two minutes to spare and no time for a briefing. We raced through the gates, hand in hand as I explained that this was the warm up exercise, in order not to panic him. After making me proud by spelling his name to the young teacher at the table, he was labelled and hussled into the middle of the gym to find a place on the yellow line among 20 or so other kinder kids. I found my perch along the side wall next to a woman with a new baby nestled peacefully in a sling, and a boy of about two standing like a little angel beside her (I instantly felt like a  major wimp, having left my  little one at home with his daddy in case he dare cried while we were out!).

Now I’m already aware of my potential to become that mum, courtesy of swimming lessons. I have only been a few times to witness my Big Boy splashing about, but each time I have nearly boiled over with frustration and the effort of preventing myself from lurching forward to unleash a torrent of discipline and advice about technique (having been a little pro swimmer myself, I know all there is to know about teaching 4 year olds how to swim). I have had to look away at times to suck in deep, deep breaths and to remind myself that:

1. there is a teacher in the pool with him, who is qualified to teach swimming (though I haven’t seen her certificate…)
2. I am not in charge – she is (a control freak’s worst nightmare)
3. they are only kids (another excuse)
4. it’s okay to have a bit of fun while learning (but not too much, cos we pay money for this!)
5. everyone will stare, point  and label me as that parent if I keep jumping out of my plastic seat to stand on the edge of the pool glaring and threatening

So, I knew what I was up against when I entered the gym with my excitable 4 year old. Things started out okay while activities were simple and instructions basic. But when the friendly Rosie (or Mrs Lumsdon for the those kids) upped the ante and had them multi-tasking with more skill than my boy has, things started to unravel for him, and then  me. He began to look around him, trying to figure out what to do with his hands and feet and blue beanbag, but decided pretty quickly that it would be a hell of a lot easier to just go nuts, jumping about, throwing the beanbag and laughing at himself.

My pulse began to race – the struggle to control my urges was on, BIG time. I initially used the power of my mind and any eye contact we made to send him messages of encouragement. You can do it. Keep trying love. Then, Stop mucking around! You’re not even trying! That didn’t work, so I started on Rosie. Can’t you see the boy is struggling? Shouldn’t you be helping him or something? For gods sake, HELP THE BOY!

Still nothing. My Big Boy continued to be that kid and I attempted to stifle any evidence of being that parent (I wonder how many other mums were aware of my constant fiddling with the coat buckle, shifting feet and clenched teeth?). Thank god the class ended when it did, because my heart was either going to shatter on behalf of my son and his lack of skill or explode with the galloping thump thumping of a parent who is on the verge of losing it. Mrs Lumsdon’s class could well have been the unravelling of both of us – a reputation established months and months before we even start at the school. I must be on high alert, stay focused and avoid watching my son participate in anything!

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Might sound strange, coming from the mouth or laptop of an atheist. Let me reassure you – I haven’t just woken up with a whole new belief system, had an epiphany or been smoking anything illegal, but I have found a God and he lives under my roof!

‘Domestic Goddess’ – a term that could never and will never be applied to yours truly. Never. So, no, it’s not me and it’s not, surprisingly, my Big Boy or baby. That leaves my husband. Could it be? Yes, yes, yes! I’m not sure that he’ll appreciate being labelled a God, let alone a Domestic God, but what the hell. He deserves the accolade.

And so to a tale, to make you all green with envy (or perhaps not, if you’re lucky enough to have one of your own). Last week I went out at night, leaving my husband with Big Boy to put to bed and the baby to ‘mind’ (note: baby is breastfed, not taking a bottle and usually has a rollover feed at 9:30pm.) One minute before arriving home he called, to let me know (very calmly, to his credit) that the baby had awoken of his own accord, apparently aware that his late night feed was well overdue. I screeched to a halt, partially mounting the curb outside our house, having decided that it would be quicker to commence feeding with a dash from the road than the garage. There was no panic as he helped me get organised and no complaint when I jumped into bed alongside him to feed the noisy sucker.

It was a late night, not drifting into my favourite place in the world until after midnight and so, needless to say, when the baby awoke at the crack of dawn the next morning, after being drained left and right, I was reluctant to get out of bed. My husband got up with both kids and before I emerged a couple of hours later, had cleared the bench of the previous day’s coated dishes, put on a load of washing (that includes handling the stinky modern nappies) and vacuumed.

And so to you, my husband, co-creator of Big Boy and the baby and Domestic God, I charge my glass and toast to years of domestic bliss (no pressure). Cheers!

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Now the curtain is coming up, the entertainer is taking a bow. Does his dance step and sings a song….or something like that. My Big Boy is The Entertainer.

Sounds impressive, yes? Amusing? Perhaps even useful? Possibly, but the majority of the time it does my head in.
Reason 1: I am paranoid about the baby getting squished by his big brother, accidentally or not*. My son seems to have developed two left feet and lost his center of gravity over the last 6 months, leaving him susceptible to tripping, stumbling and crashing upon any attempt at functional movement. Add singing and ‘dancing’ (I fear he may have inherited his father’s awkward style) and the result is generally bruising and breakages. Now throw in a baby on the floor. Not good for my mental health.

Reason 2: I have developed my mother’s sensitivity to noise (acutally, it’s more of an intolerance, perhaps even an aversion).  Not great when you’re a mother to two young boys, so I may need to jam that into the Must Work On drawer of my Personality Traits filing cabinet. With entertainment comes lots of noise (because, along with the thumping of his Big Boy feet, his singing leaves a lot to be desired). So for musically trained ears and hypercritical and hypersensitive tendencies, it’s all just a bit much.

But despite the damage I incur to the delicate thread of sanity I have stowed away, the baby LOVES IT! He smiles with his entire face until his cheeks consume his eyes. He chuckles and coos, oblivious to the danger that crashes around him. While I’m gripping onto my trackie pants, white-knuckled, stifling screams of panic and over-stimulation, he follows his brother’s every move and provides my Big Boy with all the encouragement he needs to continue entertaining. So, for the sake of the greater good, The Entertainer will carry on performing, much to the delight of his biggest fan, a defenseless but happy little brother.

*To heighten my paranoia and take me back to square one in my attempt to overcome the beast, my Big Boy did attempt to squash the baby recently, but let’s talk about that another time, when I am seeing a lighter shade of red.

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I could write about my fascination with the bathroom mirror, or, more accurately, the reflection that peers back at me – a stripy, glistening stomach and a pair of breasts that don’t even look related (while both zigzagged with blue veins, one will often sit lower and jiggle more than its firmer, more upright counterpart, depending on the feeding status). But what I am referring to is reflecting on my Big Boy’s baby stage.

People refer to hindsight as being ‘great’. Truth be told, I think it’s rather irritating. There are times when I would rather have a complete lack of insight, because what I seem to learn from hindsight frustrates me and there’s nothing I can do about it, bar time travel, and I can’t afford that.

Hindsight has delivered two main learnings, as I have reflected on my Big Boy’s babyhood:

1. A mummy does know her body and her baby better than anyone else, and if we were allowed to just get on the with the job, we would probably do it better! I nearly punched a midwife when she came to check how breastfeeding was going with child number two. ‘Yeah, we’re doing well, thanks,’ I had reported proudly. At this point I expected her to smile sweetly, congratulate me and float quietly from the room with her clipboard. Not so. Having never laid eyes on me or Baby before this encounter, she suggested that I try a different feeding technique, just because ‘that’s how you’re meant to do it’. Serious? I just said that we were doing fine, NOW LEAVE US ALONE!

2. No bomb is going to explode if you attempt to put baby to breast before the recommended two and a half hours is up. If the baby is hungry, feed it – it may well have a big appetite (as my Big Boy does, and obviously did). All those times I panicked and clumsily squished him into the pram’s cocoon to pacify him with a bolt around the block because it had only been two hours since his last feed, he was probably thinking, ‘Is this woman crazy? All I want is a god damned drink!’

3. If your baby happens to fall asleep while you’re cuddling him, you’re not setting him up for complete dependence on cuddles for achieving sleep for the rest of his life. Enjoy those baby cuddles because Big Boys prefer to simply jump on you.

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I may have alluded to the fact that I am a MAJOR CONTROL FREAK. I want to re-visit that in the context of parenting.

Being a Control Freak is exhausting. You must keep tabs on everything, constantly analysing, pre-empting and taking charge. Things must go according to a plan (preferably one of your own). No, really, they must, because any hint of straying from what Must Be leads to utter chaos and meltdown. And it’s not just in your own life that you have this massive responsibility of ensuring that the plan is implemented without hitch – you are bound by the rules of Control Freaks United to ensure that everyone and everything else conforms. Phew!

Now enter the baby – a bundle of squawks that has spent roughly the last nine months in a dark sac of warm water, floating without concern for rules and plans. This is a Control Freak’s worst nightmare – no predictability, no plan, just needs that must be met. This little human is a non-conformist, determined to do her own thing, on her own watch (and the watch has no numbers….). FEED ME NOW! CHANGE ME! CUDDLE ME – NO, NOT LIKE THAT! GET MY GAS UP! Etcetera. Oh, and DON’T YOU DARE DISTURB ME WHEN I’M SLEEPING!

Being organised is great. Having a strategy is great as well. But trying to control a newborn is not such a great idea, trust me. There is no black and white (I have learnt to pity those who experience a more severe form of my condition, which manifests in a firm belief that black and white exists, that there are reasons for all newborn or child behaviour and basic solutions to all acts of straying from the plan or breaking the rules. For them, life must be unbearable). There is no recipe, no exact formula, just a whole lot of grey.

Day to day life now becomes the hardest thing you have ever tried to control. No matter how structured and timetabled you intend it to be, there are always curveballs – a massive, sticky poo filling a nappy or a chunky vomit all over your new outfit just before you step out the door. Pick up the phone to make a call or peel off your clothes to step into the shower and the baby will start screaming for your attention. Dare to meet up with a friend for a coffee and your little angel will have her longest nap on record, right through the allotted caffeine time.

Of course the other target for Control Freaks is our partners/husbands. This is a time when you’re both treading water hard, desperately trying not to sink. The last thing he needs is someone to hover over him, monitoring, correcting and taking over when things aren’t done to your specifications. Like vulnerable new mums, dads need time to find their feet, adjust to their role and build up their confidence. Ignore the inside-out singlet. Let him find his own way of holding the baby (it’s true that a baby’s head/neck needs to be managed carefully, but seriously, it won’t fall off!). Have a laugh, rather than a bitch, about the mis-match of an outfit he’s clothed your little one in. The biggest lesson for members of Control Freaks United is to learn to better control our own way of thinking, acting and re-acting  (I am still attending classes regularly…am yet to pass the subject).

Being a member of Control Freaks United can make parenting just that little bit more challenging, but I have done my best to use the transition into parenthood as an opportunity to tame this personality trait of mine. It will always be a part of me, I’m afraid, but adding two kids to the partnership equation has certainly forced me to loosen the reigns and forgo any solid plans to shower.

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