Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

Now, let’s not pretend that we have never thought it, even if only fleetingly. If you try to tell me that it’s never crossed your mind, I simply won’t believe you. The thing is, the Post Office won’t accept a live package, and the practicalities of returning your baby from whence it came…well…hmm. I’ll leave that thought with you. But what about men?

Recent discussions about baby-proofing our future have caused me to reflect on and rant about the lack of physical contribution that the male body makes when it comes to reproductive matters (despite the rather essential  tadpole offering that facilitates baby-making). It’s not their fault, but someone has to be held accountable.

We (women, that is – I am assuming that the majority of you are female) assume at least part of, sometimes sole, responsibility for contraception, before we succumb to ‘instincts’ (or insanity). We ride the waves of nausea, dizziness and erractic eating during pregnancy. We lug a bowling ball on our front (and around our sides if the ball is female….kidding) and then pass this ball through our most delicate orifice in the most primal and undignifying way. We donate our breasts to milk production, inflamed and infected ducts, stretching and then drooping. And then we start back at artificial hormones.

The men? The only transformation that their bodies undergo around the years of reproduction is the loss of some strands of hair, the greying of others and a little more spread around the gut. So, can we return to sender? Or do we just need to accept that women have been chosen for these roles because we are simply braver, stronger and, well, more superior?

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So is a kid, except you don’t get your pick of the litter. Yours could be the yappy jumpy one, the cute fluffy one, the small one with an eye for mischief, or the runt of the litter (not that you’d ever speak that aloud).

We recently welcomed the newest member of our extended family into the world. He is gorgeous and squeaks like a little bird. Only a week old, he sleeps, feeds and squirts. He is oh so cuddly and has major potential to wreak havoc on women who are prone to the clucks.

Mother nature cannot be trusted. She has ulterior motives – namely, to expand the population. She brings these adorable little people into the world, complete with something (yet to be discovered) that sends pulses of motherly urges into unsuspecting minds. Before we know it, we are growing feathers and pecking at bugs. Memories of sickly or immobile pregnancies - wiped. Vivid recollections of labour and birth – majorly suppressed (to suggest that this could be erased would be a lie). The teary fog of sleeplessness – forgotten. The challenges of toddlerhood – tucked away in an awkward little corner of your mind.

If you’re not on guard, these impulses of the clucks can grab hold and turn into temporary insanity, during which you begin to seriously consider donating your body, your mind, emotions and hip pocket to another being. True stuff.

The thing is, these little cuddly squeakers grow, change and become real people with needs and impulses of their own. Unlike dogs they cannot be motivated or rewarded with cardboard-like snacks, locked up, kept on a leash or micro-chipped. They won’t be obedient just because you are their master, and they can’t be de-sexed. Kids can’t be booked into the Kennels when the travel bug bites, and the consequences of poor training are a little more significant than torn cushions and puddles on the carpet.

A dog is for life and so is a kid. So to all those ladies of child bearing age, BE ON GUARD (and consider getting a dog). Mother nature is after you.

Oh, and for those who may be wondering if the clucks have got me yet? NO CHANCE! I purchased an all-weather, cluck-resistant suit of armor that has a lifetime guarantee.

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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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I have so many…where to begin?

Firstly, let me say this. STOP!! Before reading on, you must promise me something. You must promise that you will share with me too – give and take.

Since becoming a parent more than 4 years ago I have a big old leather suitcase stuffed full of dirty little secrets. Time to begin unpacking them to ease the load and make you feel better about your own suitcase of truths. I will reveal them gradually to you, so as to lesson the risk of losing readers to the shock of what my suitcase contains. Here goes:

1. I made a gruesome  discovery the other day. I had been wondering for nearly three months why my now gaping, shapeless excuse for a belly button had become darker and more rough to touch. Strange, I had thought. Just one of the side effects of pregnancy I guess. I’ll add that to the list. But no, it wasn’t. I decided to scrub at it a little the other day…and the darkness (which on closer inspection was a dirty grey) began to disappear and the skin to feel smoother. Turns out I had been breeding months of lint. Fascination was quickly replaced with disgust, and then back to fascination. I’ve never had the stuff before and now I could’ve done with a chisel to remove it! Note to self: the cave needs a good clean out at least once a week.

2. I have been known to tell Big Boy that I will put him in the recycling bin (yes my son, the one with the blue lid) if he doesn’t behave, in the hope that they’ll give me a well-behaved boy in return. He throws his head back and laughs, telling me I’m crazy. What he doesn’t know is that I’m not entirely joking. If it wasn’t for some bad publicity that a woman in Britain received recently for putting a cat in a garbage bin, well…who knows?

Okay enough from me. Your turn. Please make me feel a little less dirty by emptying one of your little secrets into the comments box below, no matter how big or small… you never know, it may even feel good!

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They are the forgotten ones. Forced into the shadows right from the start and if we’re not careful, they can linger there in the dark, unrecognised. I speak of the husbands/partners of expectant women and new mothers.

Pregnancy is all about the woman (unless you are one of the thirty-something percent of Australian male partners who experience the very real sympathy pregnancy, complete with vomiting and weight gain…serious) – after all, it is her body that is undergoing actual physical change. She is monitored by health professionals, undergoes tests and scans and receives all the leaflets about what to expect from pregnancy and new parenthood, complete with my favourite: ‘One in three women wet themselves’ (I like to point that out…it makes me feel like I’m part of a special group). The dads are side-lined through no fault of their own, left to sit quietly in corner of the examination room, pretending to understand talk about ‘fundal height’ and the significance of protein in wee.

This failure to acknowledge the other, equally significant, half of the equation continues post birth into new parenthood, except this time it’s about mum and baby. Has the uterus returned to its original size? Has the stitched region healed? Are there concerns about coping or postnatal depression? Is the baby feeding well and putting on weight?

Let’s not forget about the men who, rather importantly, planted the seed in the beginning, and who have to witness childbirth. They then have to share their lady with an utterly dependent, screaming being who turns organs of pleasure into purely practical and unglorifying bits. They often spend the majority of their week tolerating an unsatisfying, frustrating or impossibly busy job to come home in the evening to a frazzled woman, inconsolable child and chaotic household. Who asks our men how they are coping with it all? Who looks out for their well-being and sanity? The change brought about  by the introduction of children into a partnership and the adjustment required is monumental. Let’s bring the men out of the shadows.

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