Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

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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I soooo wish I could tell you that I was checking in to a health/fitness/beauty/relaxation/strictly women-only retreat for a few days. Sadly, no – the baby won’t take a bottle. Checking in to a fancy hotel? No. Checking in to rehab? I said no, no, no.

Pregnant women gets piles… of attention. Interested parties asking after her health, the baby’s growth, ideas for names. The bulge is like a beacon for attention, and with that often comes support. The woman continues to get some attention when the baby is first born, until the novelty of a new baby and mum wears off. Then the phone calls slow down, visitors dry up and casseroles cease to appear miraculously on the door mat.

Problem is, after those first couple of months the novelty of it all may have worn off for the woman too. Days at home with a gorgeous, unpredictable, sweet-smelling, pooing, spewing, crying baby can be long…really long. Lonely too… and boring. All too soon the reality of the transition into new parenthood sets in. And who’s there to check in on her? Please note: I am absolutely not forgetting the men, who never even get the attention and support to start with.

First time around I was the master of deception, of brave-facedness. I had a talent for smiling and laughing at the right time, of talking only about happy things and saving the tears and truth until Neighbours (or something of a similarly high caliber and emotive storyline) was on. Those closest to me knew what was going on for me, because keeping up appearances was too exhausting to maintain with everyone (and you figure that your family has seen you at your worst already…namely, in your somewhat emotional, horrid teens). But most people remained oblivious to my struggle.

Why? People don’t ask. People don’t delve. Perhaps people are more comfortable with the simple supermarket exchange. Or maybe they don’t  even consider that this mum is not finding her new gig as exciting and glossy as is often falsely portrayed. So, what I ask of you is this: if you know a new mum, or even one who has been at it for a while (let’s face it, the gig doesn’t get any easier) think about checking in with her.

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People have often said, to my great, swelling pride, that my Big Boy will be a ‘heart breaker’ when he gets older. What can I say? He’s got my genes. Trouble is, the ‘heart breaker’ thing has begun already…

Yes, the girls at child care love him, but I don’t think he’s broken any hearts there yet – they seem quite happy to share the four year old love and craziness. It’s my heart he’s breaking, and not because of his big brown eyes, cheeky nature or strange kisses. It’s because I’m not only his mummy now. I have another boy who demands a lot of my time, attention and affection (oh, and there’s the baby too). I have been well and truly shoved to the outer since his baby brother arrived.

Everyone tells me it’s ‘normal’ and it probably is. Still, when your Big Boy brings home a drawing of his family, complete with him, dad and the baby…hang on, complete? Ah, there’s the small omission of your mother, son. Or when he tells me to stay home while he goes to the park with dad, because it’s my job to look after the baby and the house (note: he has always known me as a working mummy). Or when he delights in telling me that him and daddy are going to have blue plates for dinner and I’m going to have a brown plate. Or when he wants dad to tell him ‘all those things’ (our little bedtime routine thing of talking about what we’ve done that day), every night. And the most recent, another drawing. At least I was in this one. Everyone else was drawn in pink pencil and I was drawn in grey. His explanation? ‘You got burnt in the fire mum’.

I’m trying not to break down in tears anymore, or let myself completely lose the plot in anger and frustration. I compliment him on his wonderful drawings and state indifference to the different coloured plate. With the help of a brilliant, calm husband, a baby who smiles at me no matter what and a newly acquired family nurse, I will ride the heart break and look forward to the day when it’s another girl’s heart he’s shattering.

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I try to limit my black tea consumption out of guilt, based on some warning that I heard or read somewhere about something to do with breastfeeding and babies. Probably in a list of the Top 1000 things to avoid when pregnant, breastfeeding or caring about your wellbeing. So when I have one, it’s because I really, truely need one (frayed nerves and exhaustion are two of the more common criteria).

Thing is, I rarely get to drink the deliciously dark, sweet guilt – I mean tea. Before even getting to the point of putting mug to lips, the kettle may boil half a dozen times. I either get distracted (life really is a series of distractions) or hear the little man call out from his cot as soon as  the ‘click’ of boiled water sounds. So, if I get to the point of adding hot water and a smallish (okay, generous) teaspoon of sugar (it’s raw…does that make it better?) to a mug with an Earl Grey teabag dangling innocently inside, it’s a miracle.

If the Gods are on my side I get to pick up the cup, sniff, blow and then sip. If the God’s are on my side. Generally that cup of saving grace remains on the kitchen bench getting stronger and colder until it’s beyond redemption. Life just interferes. I used to sigh and tip the cold, golden-brown liquid down the drain. Now, I do one of two things:

1. I pick it up, sniff, blow (not sure why…habit I guess, and distraction) and sip. But that’s as far as the guilty affair goes. Indulgence doesn’t taste as good when it’s been left to sit too long.
2. Avoid cold black tea by:

• leaving another task half-finished and sipping serenely
• letting the baby cry and gulping/choking the hot tea down
• drinking scolding hot tea while precariously clutching onto the rescued baby with the other hand, supported somewhat by a hip and held over the cushy rug (in case I drop the mug…or the baby).

The problem with these scenarios is that guilt and Earl Grey don’t mix too well.

It seems that cold black tea acts as a metaphor for life with kids – guilty intentions to indulge in a feel-good activity, interrupted; attempts to complete a task from start to finish, severed; plans, hopes, dreams left to sit on the bench, going cold (okay, a little exaggerated, but it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to). Perhaps I should stick to eating too much chocolate (that’s also in the Top 1000 list).

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There are some words and phrases that should never have to appear on anyone’s blog, in the one post. Here are some of them:

• anal
• probe
• rotating
• balloon
• electric shocks
• gloved, lubricated fingers of a stranger

I should say that the main reason for the above was my aforementioned flatal incontinence. Now, there’s dignity!

There can’t be a worse job in the world than that of a…actually, I’m not entirely sure what his title was…but someone who sticks objects and fingers in the back passage of others. There can be nothing enjoyable or rewarding about that, for either party. But that was his job and, unfortunately, I was the subject, I mean patient, beamed up for an examination, some probing and NO memory erasing! The least they could have done was to knock me out!

My preparation for this ‘experience’ was both good and bad. The anxiety around having someone poke things in that area on a background of constipation was enough to convince my lazy digestive system to fire on all cylinders this morning. Phew. But my psychological preparation left a little to be desired. I was kindly invited into the room before I had even had a chance to sit down in the waiting area, and to feed my baby (I had planned it all perfectly…arrive early, feed the baby and then leave him with his daddy, happy and satisfied..they were running early and my plan vanished, leaving me with full breasts and my husband with a hungry baby). To be honest, I’m not sure how one would mentally prepare for such an experience…

The ins and outs of it, I shall spare you (the list above should give you some idea of what went on, and leave you begging for a mind eraser). Plus, I may be punished by the little green men if I give away the secrets of my alien encounter. Let’s just add a list of thoughts and feelings, in chronological order:

• awkward
• embarrassed
• uncomfortable
• are you serious?
• surely not…
• oh, for god’s sake!
• quick, find a happy place!
• wrong, so wrong
• please let me go now
• resignation
• realisation
• violated
• upset
• embarrassed
• awkward

Birthing has been described as empowering, beautiful, miraculous. But the post-birth consequences? Oh, the indignities.

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