Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

My Big Boy used to groan with boredom when the ad breaks appeared, asking how many minutes until his show came back on. Then he started to pay attention to ads with a catchy tune or beat, or even just something repetitive - AAMI’s ‘What about me?’ ad and ‘O O O…O’Brien!’ could (and still do) cause him to put a pause on Lego building or crazy thrashing around the lounge room. Insurance is innocent enough, and not highly relevant at this stage, so no real concern there. But lately things have shifted again as my spongey preschooler is drawn into the evil world of advertising.

I have always been proud of the fact that my Big Boy has a pretty healthy diet. He doesn’t drink, or even like, anything other than milk or water. Offer him a ‘fizzy drink’ or cordial and he screws up his face. Manage to get some past his lips and he spits it out in disgust. In his four and a half years he has only ever had the Golden Arches on two occasions, and even then, he thinks it’s a cafe called ‘Old MacDonalds’ (we don’t tell him the name, for fear of an addiction). Nup, he’s a boy of simple taste who has largely remained oblivious to the evils of fast food. But lately?

“Ooo, I love this ad. Mum, can we make one of them tonight?”
It’s the Hungry Jacks ad featuring a brekkie wrap – a hideous looking thing with rubbery egg, bacon and a patty professing to be meat. Also showing during this 20 seconds of evil is a cappuccino, complete with chocolate dusting.
“What is it that you like about it?”
“I just like it. It looks yummy.”
“But what about it looks yummy?”
“The chocolate sprinkles.”
“So you don’t like the look of the food?”
“Yeah, that looks yummy too. Can we make it?”

I silently curse Hungry Jacks and their advertising people. They got him on the chocolate dusting and made him think that he wants a breakfast wrap! I also curse KFC and their chicken burger, to which Big Boy responded with the same request about making ‘one of those’… BUT, I shouldn’t complain too much, because he isn’t asking to ‘go there’, just to ‘make one’.  So we made a delicious, healthy chicken burger last week and he loved it. Ha! Evil advertisers of evil fast food, I think I’m still on top of you. But I do sense that we’re turning a corner and any day soon he will be asking to have, make, consume, borrow or visit anything that appears on TV. I guess that’s when the TV gets thrown out, along with all catalogues. Sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?

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If you’re lucky to have family or friends close enough and willing to take on a crazed child for even a few hours, or a ‘job’ that requires you to have a head screwed on and clean clothes, you will have periods of absence from your children. If you’re lucky enough.

For me, time away from the Big Boy is a necessity, not a luxury (though it is luxurious). A day, or a few hours of preschooler-free air to breathe does wonders for topping up my little pocket of sanity. But does it make my heart grow fonder? No. In fact those glimpses into life as I knew it can work in reverse. I remember life without Lego impalements and rolled ankles. Life without the noise of an electronic, interactive keyboard. Life without the incessant noise of a voice produced at excessive decibels and the most irritating pitch possible. Life without whining, whinging and forced howling (actually, I should probably say ‘life with a little less‘… someone else may contribute to that whining…not saying who). Ahhhh…

But there are things that have the potential to make my heart grow fonder (read: ‘My heart is already brimming with fondness for my kids – any more and I’d explode with love!’ or just plain Cold Heartedness… interpret as you will). One such thing is spending time with other people’s kids.

Obviously it depends who those kids are; you have to pick carefully you see, or the reverse can happen and you can end up with a nasty case of Child Envy. Sweet, gentle little girls with bows in their hair, soft pitter patter feet, angelic voices and fluid movements – whilst gorgeous and calming to have around – only serve to highlight my Big Ball of Relentless Energy’s lack of such qualities. But if you pick the kids correctly, fondness for your own may follow. I recommend sourcing kids who either look feral or act feral (your child care centre should have some in stock, as should the local play centre… or is that just my local play centre?)

There’s nothing like a good, healthy dose of comparison to make you feel a little more fond of your own, and a little more capable as a parent. If all goes to plan, you can walk away with a goody bag full of comparisons that highlight your own child’s good bits. Bits that generally need a pick axe to access.

So, does absence make my heart grow fonder? No, but it does help to keep insanity at bay.

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So genetics versus environment. We all know it’s a combination to the two, the ratios of which depend on where your guilt lies. You see, it’s entirely your fault if you blame genetics, but at least there was nothing you could do about. Whereas environment, well, you can blame other factors outside of yourself, but you potentially have more control over them than your genes…with me?

So, when it comes to my kids, here is what I know I can blame on my genetics:

1. eczema – as we smother the wriggly, nudey rudey, obsessed with his bottom and penis Big Boy in moisturiser morning and night, my poor husband groans and curses my genetics… sorry to say, darling husband of clear skin, that the Baby has patches of dodgy skin now too!
2. a pasty complexion (the Baby) – once again, apologies to my olive-skinned, tolerant-of-the-sun husband who laughs at my paranoid slip, slop slapping
3. a touch of the ginger – whilst the Big Boy seems to have his daddy’s colouring, it appears that the Baby may have inherited a little strawberry-blond from my side. I’m not sounding like the best choice in mating partners, am I?

Things I can perhaps blame on my genetics:

1. Big Boy’s ‘cheeky monkey’ syndrome (though my husband has to accept some responsibility for this one)

Things I wish I could claim as my genetics:

1. Big Boy’s spatial skills

Things the Big Boy didn’t seem to get from my Good genetic pile:

1. athleticism – at the 70m mark on the aths track next door, his shoulders slump, feet drag and his face pales…and don’t get me started on his poor performance in body building classes
2. musicality – tuneless tunes are his love…at least he has imagination and creativity when it comes to making up his own melodies and lyrics…in fact, we may well train him up to audition for X Factor!
3. determination – at present, he prefers to try and never try again…ever! Or to not even bother attempting. Having said that, he’s certainly very determined when it comes to being heard and getting his own way.

Things I can well and truly blame on the environment:

1. his slightly pommy accent (cheers to a year in the Motherland)
2. his love of the Simpsons and Super Mario Galaxy (though some would argue that the passion was so great that genetics – not mine – simply must be involved)

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No, not the hippie girl from down the street or the daughter of a celebrity. Patience, as in ‘patience is a virtue’. Gulp. No virtue here I’m afraid.

My Big Boy likes to bake. More accurately, he likes to stand on a chair at the kitchen bench and eat anything that doesn’t quite make it into the bowl – flour, butter, sugar, egg…ewww. Nonetheless, it’s something that we do together when I need comfort food and feel like I should engage him in an activity that may help to repair our jagged relationship. It may be a sweet bribe of sorts, but let’s call it ‘gentle persuasion to love mummy again’. Induces less guilt that way.

So, at the kitchen bench we stand. I summon Patience to be by my side because I know what’s coming when we don our aprons and collect ingredients: mess, chaos, distraction, groaning, whinging, breakages and spillages. I hover over him, wide-eyed, breathing rapidly and muttering to myself about ‘why am I putting myself through this again (apart from the obvious teeth-rotting, cholesterol-rising treat at the end of it)? I clench my teeth, bite my tongue and let out little noises of  agony.

I engage in self-talk, urging Patience to persist and convincing my facial muscles to work together to produce what might pass for a smile of sorts (the outcome is probably an expression more akin to constipation). Don’t jump down his throat every time his snotty, grotty fingers dip into the mix – he doesn’t really care about keeping his germs to himself, and no one’s going to die of a little baked booger. Don’t use your angry voice when he claims to be too tired to stir, but is jumping up and down on the chair like a monkey. And whatever you do, don’t cry over that spilt milk! I remind myself about the benefits of baking together – developing new skills, learning about food, fostering a loving relationship. The effort of it all nearly causes me to explode.

And that’s just the baking. He offered to do the dishes last week. Patience only made a brief appearance, vanishing when he insisted that I hand over the wine glasses.

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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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