Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

There was no soft, warm glow. No white linen clothing. No airbrushed looks or ‘I’ve just stepped out of a salon’ hair. There was no dreamy sleep-in followed by breakfast in bed.

There was a 6:20 thump and bump, a blinding bedroom light switched on followed by a School Boy howl. There was a Baby who heard this and woke before he was ready. There was a last minute dash to the shops for breakfast ingredients. There was hollandaise that didn’t quite make it and poached eggs that dispersed freely in the water, unable to be rescued.

There were many reminders directed the School Boy’s way about the significance of this day and the importance of ‘being nice to mum’…please (fallen on profoundly deaf ears). There was a walk beside a river to the tune of whinging, whining and deliberate sloshing in puddles in new sneakers. There was chaos, mayhem, madness. It was just another day really.

To be fair, there were a couple of lovely little gifts from the boys. The School Boy had taken a gold coin from his own wallet to purchase a fridge magnet at the stall for me. He had written that “I love mum because she macs dina”. And the Baby had smudged some green hand prints below a cute poem for me to reflect on.

But really, Mother’s Day? One day in the entire year that our grueling work is acknowledged formally – cheers. Has anyone dared suggest that the best gift a mother could get is to spend a few precious hours in solitary confinement?

Mother’s Day five years on. Reality bites.

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I have been inching closer. Small but definite steps as though being pulled by a magnetic force, powerless to resist. Sickeningly aware of where I’m headed.

My body weakens, my mind resembles an icecream, clumsily dropped on the pavement, succumbing to the warmth of the sun – my capacity to make decisions, to plan, melts away. The pendulum of emotion begins to swing less wildly, rather hanging limply with barely perceptible movement. I am nearing Point Break.

It’s not one thing or another. If I could decompartmentalise my life and experience each aspect in isolation, I would be fine.

If all I had to deal with was one task or one challenge or one crisis at a time, there would be no blog post.

If all I had to do was deal with a clingy baby, with no need for doing the washing or vacuuming…

If all I had to do was come home from work and make dinner with no thought for bathing or lunch preparation…

If I had an entire day to devote soley to being enthusiastic, energetic and loving towards my volatile school boy with no thought for making beds, doing the shopping or dealing with a clingy baby…done.Well, done better, anyway.

But the reality is that life is not so neat or manageable.

Point Break is the snapping of ligaments as a consequence of being pulled in multiple directions, simultaneously. It is failing to re-fuel when the red light indicates a near-empty tank. It is wading through deep, murky water, unsure of your footing and what lies ahead.

But I sit, reassured in the knowledge that Point Break is not to be confused with The Point of No Return. All I need is a map, clear directions and a full tank*. That’s all.

*A house cleaner, cook, live-in nanny for the middle of the night wakenings, daily massages and hot baths wouldn’t be wasted either.

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A wise woman recently reminded me that it takes a village to raise a child. Another equally wise woman referred to it as a ‘community’. Either way, you get the point.

Children need a variety of influences in their lives; people other than their parents to guide them, make them laugh and look out for them. People to spoil them, loosen the reigns a little and smother them with hugs and kisses.

My point is that it also takes a village to support parents. No one will argue with a parent who acknowledges just how demanding and exhausting parenting is (and if they dare try, send them my way). It’s relentless. It’s wearing, and there are times, many of them, when an extra pair of hands are most welcome – someone to give you a break from this 24 hour a day, volunteer work. It might come in the form of practical assistance (some help with the grocery shopping, an offer to do some dusting or gardening); it could be an offer to mind the kids while you get on with all of those tasks that just never seem to get done. It might be an offer to have the kids for a night so that you and your partner can sleep peacefully and get up when your own body clock, rather  than that of your child, tells you to. Small things, simple things. Sanity-saving things.

It takes a village. We get run-down, squint through the fog and reach the end of our tethers, and we wonder why. Some parents have a wide, or small but dedicated community around them. Are they the lucky ones, or just examples of how it ought to be? Has the concept and existence of ‘community’ changed? Are we expected to shoulder much more of the burden than we used to, or are we just a more whingey parental bunch than our hard-working, uncomplaining older generations?

Whether you refer to it as a village or community, it’s about support and assistance. Stuff that makes survival that little bit easier; stuff that keeps sanity within reach.

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We haven’t really spoken before, in the six or so years that we’ve been living here. She’s the lady a few doors down on the opposite side of the road with the push mower that seems to never stop. Yet last week she stopped to say hello as the School Boy and I weeded the front lawn (an activity to keep him out of trouble indoors, rather than an obsession with perfection).

Our conversation was a breath of fresh air. I’ve always known that I’m not alone, but it’s not often that the words are aerated and given free reign. Powerful words shared between mothers who could otherwise tuck the thoughts away in a secret compartment, never to see the light of day. “I’m just not designed to be a stay-at-home mum.” Ahhh. “Me neither! Me neither!” I squealed, inwardly, aware of the keen kiddy ears only a few steps away. My eyes lit up as I recognised a fellow mum who worked, not because she absolutely had to, or because she adored her job, but because she knew that she wasn’t designed to stay home full-time with her child.

It doesn’t mean we love our children any less than stay-at-home mums. It doesn’t mean that we weren’t designed to be mothers. And it certainly doesn’t mean that work is more important than family (though it sure pays better). It’s just the realisation that comes with allowing myself to be who I am, not who I think I should be or who I think others think I should be. It’s a free pass out of the jail of guilt that comes with handing your kids over to someone else for a day or three. I’m just not designed to be a stay-at-home mum. What a brilliant thing fresh air is.

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There’s been plenty of toil and trouble in our house of late, and emotions may have gotten a  little out of hand.

Of course, the Big Boy (who shall be known from this moment onwards as the School Boy) has started school, and his behaviour has been a little bizarre. I may have mentioned poo on the walls. But that’s nothing compared to the flash backs to those glorious days of the two’s. In the last week, the docile library and a clothing shop have fallen victim to the School Boy’s tremendous, tormenting tantrums. Tiny triggers have sparked major defiance, followed swiftly by screaming and kicking. Nothing, absolutely nothing will calm him down as he continues to howl and make labour-like animal noises all the way home. That’s him. Me?

Perhaps it’s the frustration at knowing that I couldn’t get away with his tantrum, when in fact I have a deep desire to do exactly the same. But my temper doesn’t fair much better. The fury that is ignited when he insists on being defiant, laughing in my face and being completely sociably impossible, is scary. My eyes threaten to burst forth from their sockets and my hands ache to strangle or rip a head clean off. The capacity to feel such anger and the fear that I will one day let go of the thin thread that keeps me from snapping is terrifying.

‘Just walk away,’ I hear the crowds urging. Walk away? Leave him to throw items off shelves and to trip up the frail elderly (with his running down the isle at full pelt followed by skidding along the polished wooden floors on his knees…)? Leave him to understand, by the absence of reprimand, that such behaviour is okay? True, it’s probably a better option than the one that I took, which resulted in afore-mentioned major meltdown. But how would I feel if he did break stuff, injure someone else or even himself (he is known to be just a tad clumsy and prone to the oopsies)?

‘Oh, go easy on him love. He’s just started school and he’s probably out of sorts.’ True, again. But how much do you forgive? How much do you loosen the reigns during each and every transition in life?

He’s not two, and neither am I, and yet we both seem to find a way to behave and react as such. The only difference at the moment, is that I am managing to contain a little more of my rage than him. Just.

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