Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

There are a lot of them in our backyard, thanks to the four clucking ladies who deposit an unbelievable amount each day. They hover and buzz and lay their stinky little feet on my bare skin as I’m hanging out the washing. But it’s not the blowies I’m referring to. My Big Boy is flying the pre-school coop this week, off to the land of primary school.

I haven’t reflected much on this rather important step in our lives, just gone about the practicalities that come with the transition – buying blue shorts, roll-on sunscreen and a lunch box, and placing personalised Sponge Bob labels on some.  He has shown nothing but excitement as we’ve counted the number of sleeps to Day1. Me?

A few thoughts:

• oh my God, am I really old enough to have a school-aged child? (the same ‘oh my god’ feeling I had when we took him home from hospital - the feeling that perhaps someone ought to assess my capacity to take on such a responsibility)
• thank god (another year at home would’ve driven us all around a very sharp bend)
• thank god (perhaps the teachers will sort out his annoying habits, like putting everything in his mouth, acting like he knows it all, wiping poo on walls and a defiance that is really hard to crack – that’s their job, right, to correct all of our parental errors and turn our children into educated angels?)
• oh my god, do I have to do homework and know things like long division?
• oh my god, am I obliged to do tuck shop duty and bake cakes for the fete?
• oh my god, I’m really going to have to make sure we’re not running out the door, screaming at each other five minutes before the bell goes (and breaking into a sweat as I attempt to reach his classroom before he’s whisked to the principal’s office for minding, along with other kids whose parents are obviously disorganised and don’t care enough to greet their little petal on time)

So, to my Big Boy of school age, fly fly. Go forth with confidence, enthusiasm and resilience and I will do my best to go forth with timeliness, patience, basic numeracy and literacy skills and plenty of hugs.

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Is she serious? Whose is it? How did it get there?

Yes. The Big Boy’s. Allow me to explain.

We’ve grown accustomed to being called upon to converse, answer a question or get another roll of toilet paper when the Big boy settles in to his saga of a bowel emptying session. He gets a little bored, wants to know that we haven’t packed up and deserted the family home whilst he’s been straining and he uses a hell of a lot of toilet paper (despite many a lecture about trees, oxygen and life). So when he calls out from down the corridor we simply sigh, roll our eyes and nudge each other until someone gives in and trudges towards the loo. We anticipate a story about a certain imaginary dragon who seems to have become one of the family. Perhaps a fleeting thought about cucumbers or a recollection of something or someone that has floated into his wandering mind. What we don’t expect is this:

‘Mum,’ holding his index finger in front of his face, ‘I’ve got poo on my finger.’ Indeed he does.
‘Eww! How did that get there?’
‘When I wiped my bottom.’
‘Didn’t you use toilet paper?’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘Well wipe it off! Don’t just sit there waving poo in my face! Use some toilet paper and get it off!’…..’Then wash you hands really well with lots of soap!’

End of story. Except the next day, my husband comes into the lounge with this:

‘There’s poo on the wall.’
‘What?’ Glaring at the Big Boy.’When you got poo on your finger yesterday, did you wipe it on the wall?’
You can see the indecision in his eyes as he tries to work out whether he’ll suffer more from an honest, disgusting answer, or a little lie. ‘Just tell me the truth. Did you wipe poo on the wall or not?’
He can’t bring himself to respond verbally, so he nods his head silently and I remind myself to cut his finger nails.

The best part of this story is that it takes another two days for the poo to get cleaned off the wall.

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It’s all about the vibes…well it seems to be. Good vibes breed good vibes. Impatient vibes breed frustration. Angry vibes breed impossible-ness.

This not-so-Good-Cop trialled a novel strategy recently, called ‘Let’s be friendly, patient and playful with the Big Boy and see what happens.’ I can’t remember the last time I played this game, or what inspired me to throw the dice this time, but it was an informative and of course guilt-inducing parental experiment.

I went in knowing that it would take more energy to play this game, than to assume my usual Bad Cop persona. But I ate some nuts, had a drink of water and psyched myself up. We were going to the shops and we were going to have a good time, okay? I was not going to yell, roll my eyes, groan, threaten or demand. I was going to go at his pace and play along with his little games (which include ‘don’t step on the black tiles’ and ‘put your feet against the furry bit’ – of the escalator). I was going to smile, listen and encourage.

And, I’m proud to say, I DID IT! We got through the whole shopping trip with no harsh or heated words exchanged, no loss of privileges and no dangerous rises in blood pressure. So here’s where the guilt bursts through the door. Why don’t I do that more often? Is the behaviour of his that I groan about, curse about and sometimes nearly cry about all because of my bad vibes? Has my impatient, intolerant parenting prompted or enabled his difficult behaviour? Eek.

But, as encouraged by Happiness HQ, I will focus on the positives – I can be nice and so can he. So let’s role the dice and play again (just let me grab some sustenance first)!

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He is big and old (with the exception of a particular Santa at a particular Kinder party recently who was thin and youthful), dressed in a weird suit, has a suspicious looking beard and carries a red sack over his shoulder. The kids resist, clutch on to the out-stretched arms of mum or dad, whimper and even scream. And fair enough –  that man may well be stuffing innocent children into that sack of his! Go on, we encourage, camera poised. Must get that photo for the grandparents.

It goes against everything we will tell our kids about strangers, especially men offering gifts and cuddles. But we push them forward each year, so that they can have their annual photo with the big guy. We chuckle at the screamers, applaud the children who make it to the feet of the jolly fella, and cheer when a smile breaks out or physical contact is made without meltdown. WHAT?

The Big Boy has never really taken fondly to St Nick, but now sees him as a source of toys, the giver of gifts, the one who asks for nothing in return. So this year he went with no cajoling towards this man and snatched the bubbles right out of his hand.  He told us that this was the real Santa, as opposed to the one of TV who is simply a person dressed up as Santa. No panic attacks and no screaming.

Only a few months ago we’d had a wee chat about talking to people he doesn’t know, when he took it upon himself to go out into the front yard and talk to a walker with a dog (as opposed to going to the garage and getting in the car as he’d been instructed to do). Without wanting to squash his sociable, chatty tendency, we spoke about making sure that mum or dad is with him if he decides to wander and converse with an unknown quantity. We didn’t want to harp on about dodgy men with lollies and backseats, because instilling fear seems a little wrong.

So why is Santa any different? Should we be including a clause (excuse the clever pun) in our Stranger Danger talks about red suits, bells, sacks and ho-ho-ho’ing? Should we explain that when it comes to Christmas time, parents are inconsistent and please don’t dwell on this one too much? And then there’s the small issue of a strange man coming into their bedroom when they’re asleep…

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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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