Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

He sucks and sucks and sucks. Oh, hang on, you might not know who I’m referring to. There are, after all, three males in the house. It’s not the Baby (no, he has been convinced to give up the nipple addiction..sort of..though his lunge towards the drooping left one in the bath tonight suggests that he still has some way to go in therapy). It’s not my husband either. That leaves the School Boy.

Anything will do – cords on clothes, buttons on clothes, toys, the TV remote. He’s not even aware that he’s doing it. So why does he do it? I know that our rabbit used to lick our skin in order to get extra salt. I know that babies suck for comfort, and probably out of boredom too. Has he decided that his little brother was on to something and there is great joy to be had by having a suck? Is he parched? Does he enjoy the tingle and sting of the eczema that surrounds his mouth as a result?

To my great relief, I’ve seen other kids in his class do it too – the cords on school hoodies and hats seem to be popular for a suck. But that doesn’t make it any less bizarre or disgusting. The handles of his library bag are drenched and stinky. The cord on his big blue hat is disintegrating. And his mouth resembles that of a clown’s (let’s hope that school photos fall on a day of less sucking activity).

Why? I don’t know, he doesn’t know. Let’s add it to the mounting pile of ‘Why does my child…?’ questions, along with smearing poo on the wall and waking at the crack of dawn regardless of the previous night’s bedtime.

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I know I should be grateful that my human yearning to feel needed and wanted is being more than fulfilled at present, but I can’t help feeling a little, well, clung.

He is all over me, like a fly on fresh poo, all the time. It’s not enough for me to be in the same room or within eyesight, he has to be ON me. And no, it’s not my husband.

The Baby loves me dearly, as I do him, but I’m starting to wonder if there is actually some magnetic mechanism connecting the two of us. Something that results in pain for him if the physical distance is too great, and overwhelming joy and relief if he is in direct contact with me. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that my reactions are the polar opposite, but I don’t seem to suffer the effects of the magnets quite so acutely.

The funny thing is that this only works if he knows I’m around. If I’m not in the house at all, he does not suffer a complete meltdown, balling inconsolably until my return. But the moment I’m within view or sound – BANG! – the magnets fire up and he charges, rather slowly and awkwardly in his crawl-come-bum shuffle way, towards me, crying and whinging until the pain subsides upon contact.

And so, this little magnet of mine clings to me as though his life depends on it. I guess it’s understandable, given that his life did actually depend on it when he was solely breastfed. And I do give a damn fine hug. But it wears a little thin at times, not only with me but with the School Boy, who battles for my attention and hugs. We may well need an examination to locate these magnets and surgery to remove them, but that sounds a little scary. He is my baby, and, as I’m constantly informed by mothers who are further along the journey than I am, the magnets will likely begin to repel at some stage and I won’t be able to get him close enough for a hug.

So perhaps, rather than the more invasive and drastic treatment, we’ll opt for the conservative approach  -

1. distraction
2. sneaking (so as not to be heard or seen when I actually need to complete a task without a 10kg leech attached to me)

I am otherwise clung.

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You know that your breasts have had enough when a glance at a peach on the fruit bowl reminds you of them.

They started out as firm, shiny nectarines (let’s not even pretend that they ever got close to resembling melons of any kind) – plump, juicy, full of goodness. They have now begun to resemble a pair of dull, furry, shrivelled up peaches, perfect for feeding to the chooks.

You also know that your breasts are nearing their used by when you wind up feeling like death, lying in bed all weekend, courtesty of a pink line that marks the spot of a blocked duct. A mechanism tiring, losing efficiency, screaming out to be switched off.

You know that your breasts are growing weary when that first maternity bra now gapes embarrassingly, a clear indication of the space that was once filled.

Don’t get me wrong, when a feed is missed, they do their utmost to mimic the nectarines of an earlier era, but they are forever changed, more suited to a life swimming in fruit juice, locked away in a tin can to be served with something a little more appealing, like ice-cream.

As the Baby becomes less of a baby, and more of a cookie monster, keen for something, anything to chomp down on and create an unbelievable mess with, the peaches are realising that their time is nearing for retirement. I wish them a smooth, painless transition into their new phase of existence. Peaches and cream anyone?

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Does the arrival of a newborn mean the end of life as you knew it? Should it?

“Welcome to the Great Debate! On the affirmative team, debating that the arrival of a newborn should mean the end of life as you knew it, is New Beginnings. On the negative team, debating that the arrival of a newborn should not mean the end of life as you knew it, is Clutching On. Opening the debate is the affirmative.”

New Beginnings:
“You chose (either intentionally, or by a lack of diligence or thought) to have a baby. You made a decision to bring another life into the world. It is, therefore, your DUTY to care for and nurture this person. Your DUTY. Anything other than complete devotion and dedication is negligence. From the moment of conception, you can choose to harm your baby and jeopardise her future (for example, by drinking black tea or nibbling on soft cheese during pregnancy; by leaving her to cry in her early days; by having her jabbed with toxins; by saying no to any request; by getting angry at impossible behaviour), or do the right thing and always put her needs first in the most gentle of ways. ALWAYS.”

Clutching On:
“You cannot be serious? Are you really saying that a new mum should forsake her own needs and desires for her baby? That anyone should completely surrender themselves to any other person? We don’t do it when we marry, do we? (or do we?) And at what point does this duty, this dedication stop? Are we expected to pander to our children until we hit the grave with a thud, unrecognisable as the person who once existed before parenthood? Why not just jump into the nearest vacant plot now?”

New Beginnings:
“A little melodramatic, don’t you think? Nurturing another human is the most rewarding task of all. Watching her grow and develop; fostering the most sacred and lasting bond of all. Letting her know that you are there, always, to comfort and support her. To cuddle her when she’s sad and nurse her back to health when illness strikes. Allowing her to see that you would do anything for her. Is that so hard?”

Clutching On:
“Allow me to clarify the topic. We’re talking about ‘the end of life as we knew it’, yes? Right, well, let’s stick to that shall we, and stop using Guilt to distract us from the debate. I’m not saying that it isn’t a parent’s job to love, nurture, educate and nurse her child. I am not saying that it’s okay to wittingly cause harm to your child, in the womb or in the arms. But I am saying that life does not need to end for the parent. It is well known that a child needs many things in order to thrive both physically and emotionally. One of the most significant factors is the wellbeing of his parents. Parents need to respond to their own needs, nurture their own emotions in order to make themselves available to nurturing someone else. It could be a cup of black tea, a row of Cadbury chocolate, a hit of tennis, dinner out with friends or returning to work. Life as we know it does not and should not end when a baby arrives.”

New Beginnings:
“Selfish. When a baby arrives, she is your life. Tennis? Work? You’re happy to leave your baby for such trivial pursuits? They are more important than your own child? If you’re a real parent, with real feelings and a proper sense of responsibility, you don’t need or even yearn for more than that. Life as you know it does and should end when the most precious gift of all arrives.”

Clutching On:
“Well start digging that plot. Or should I say, you mind the child and get someone else to dig it for you? Guilt abounds and drowns us parents, even when we do attempt to do our best for our children. Unrealistic and outdated expectations only set us up for failure and a close encounter with the ailing mental health system. Go get a spade and leave me to go for a run (child looked after by another loving adult) on the green grass above you.”

At this point, both parties are required to shake hands and congratulate each other on doing the best they can (it’s in The Club‘s Code of Conduct).

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You know that level of fatigue that leads to a day of oopsies? Like completely loosing spatial awareness and inadvertently sending things flying off the bench? Like not realising that the failure to place a lid on a bottle will mean that when you do drop it, the contents will cover the floor? Like managing to trip over everything that even threatens to be in your path (and then crash landing on top of your Big Boy’s newly made Lego helicopter with the Baby in your arms)?

And you know that depth of fatigue that convinces you to forget about the state of the house and rest while the Baby does? And the luck of the day that means that the Baby wakes a painful 10 minutes after you have raised those aching feet off the ground and rested that throbbing head on the pillow?

And the all consuming fatigue that nearly causes you to fall asleep during dinner, even though it is scrumptious and you have the appetite of a horse?

Sympathy cards most welcome.

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