Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

It’s a been a while between drinks here at P Plate Parenting. I could name a number of excuses or reasons (the usual stuff, like life’s just too damned busy to justify sitting at a laptop and indulging myself in self expression, I’ve been working more…paid work, that is etc etc). Or I could try to explain… Oh, God, don your apron, this could get messy…thoughts splattered all over the page and possibly flicking into your eye.

We went away recently. Up north, to the Daintree to spend five nights  in the rainforest. A stunning house amid spectacular scenery, surrounded by real wildlife and only a short trip to the (crocodile-infested) beach. It was luxury. It was time off work. It was warm… But this pause on the ‘real’, everyday life was what did it for me. No hurry. No chaos. No cleaning or packing school lunches. Just me and the boys, being a family.

I think what struck me most was that I found myself being a little more patient, more understanding, more engaged. I whinged less, raised my voice less often and smoothed out the constant crease on my brow. My jaw relaxed giving my back teeth a break, my shoulders inched their way down from up near my ears and the morning habits resumed their proper function (who knew that tension/stress/life, whatever you want to call it, can seriously block you up?).

I could connect with my kids in a real way, that wasn’t governed by routine or a necessity to hurry the hell up! I could be there to hold the Toddler’s hand while he navigated his way around (yes, now that he’s walking, I’ve heard that I should be calling him a ‘toddler’ ); I could listen to the School Boy’s bizarre stories, uninterrupted by my own nagging thoughts of tasks I really ought to be getting on with. I could cuddle more and argue less. And this change found a way into my wee mind, causing me to pause and reflect on what I believed was My Experience of parenting.

My experience of parenting is a construct of circumstance and mind set. When life is busy and there really are things that have to be done in order to function adequately and survive, the perfect parenting model cannot co-exist. I now recognise that it is not that I am an Impatient Person (though some would argue…I reason that I can be patient if I choose to be, such as when working with people who have dementia), a Grump or digestively challenged. I am a person – a working adult, a wife, a mum – who lives a real life that pulls me in many directions and I cannot do it all perfectly.

And so, back to the point of this post. Many of my posts so far have had a touch of the whinge about them. They have been an opportunity to de-brief, get things off my now non-existent breast, I mean chest, and this blog has served a brilliant therapeutic purpose. But somehow I find it harder (at present, anyhow) to get back into that mind set, that identity. So I am pausing, to think, to reflect, to deconstruct and then reconstruct. Stay with me – I’ll see you on the other side.

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There are times that I have to remind myself (and my husband) that our kids have not been put here for our entertainment. And that it is our job to lie sometimes.

You have probably gathered that our parenting style is not of the gently, gently, cotton wool type approach. There is little sheltering from truths, shying away from awkward discussions or just plain lying about stuff to ‘protect’ them (within reason… I haven’t yet explained to the School Boy that his existence contributes to mummy’s insanity..a lie of omission I guess). We are honest, mostly. But I can’t help get all childish in my enthusiasm to play with their little minds when it comes to these fictional characters that we introduce them to.

The School Boy recently lost his first tooth in the most hilarious of situations. He showed me the bloody tooth, hanging on by a  thread of gum, to which I responded, ‘ew, it’s bleeding.’  His response was to suck hard to get rid of said blood, and dislodge and inhale his baby tooth in the process. He doubled over, struggling to take a breath, then coughed and heaved until this little piece of enamel flew across the kitchen floor. He wasn’t too traumatised, and so I indulged in a side-splitting, semi-subdued fit of laughter.

The conversation that ensued, lead by my husband, included reference to the Tooth Fairy and money. A pang of guilt hit – I’d forgotten all about the Tooth Fairy, followed a pang of ‘oh crap, another lie to sustain’. We told him that we’d contact her by phone or email to tell her the news, but he insisted that there is a team of mixed-gender fairies who provide this service - my politically correct little man strikes again.

I just had to scratch my itch and probe a little into his ’knowledge’ of the Tooth Fairy (none of which has come from us). I asked him where the fairies live (‘with Santa’) how he thought a little fairy could carry a tooth (‘Magic, I guess’), where the fairies stored these teeth (shrug of the shoulders), and how they could possibly afford to put a coin under the pillow of every child, every time a tooth fell out (another shrug of the shoulders)? His inquisitive, perceptive mind didn’t once question the validity of the whole Tooth Fairy thing. But he’s more than happy to question us on matters that make much more sense. Maybe these kids are smarter than we think and they are actually deceiving us..they know the truth but fear that if they let on, all gifts, chocolate and monetary donations will dry up.

So what now?  I figure that if it is our job to sustain these parental lies, then we are entitled to a little fun along the way…

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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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He sucks and sucks and sucks. Oh, hang on, you might not know who I’m referring to. There are, after all, three males in the house. It’s not the Baby (no, he has been convinced to give up the nipple addiction..sort of..though his lunge towards the drooping left one in the bath tonight suggests that he still has some way to go in therapy). It’s not my husband either. That leaves the School Boy.

Anything will do – cords on clothes, buttons on clothes, toys, the TV remote. He’s not even aware that he’s doing it. So why does he do it? I know that our rabbit used to lick our skin in order to get extra salt. I know that babies suck for comfort, and probably out of boredom too. Has he decided that his little brother was on to something and there is great joy to be had by having a suck? Is he parched? Does he enjoy the tingle and sting of the eczema that surrounds his mouth as a result?

To my great relief, I’ve seen other kids in his class do it too – the cords on school hoodies and hats seem to be popular for a suck. But that doesn’t make it any less bizarre or disgusting. The handles of his library bag are drenched and stinky. The cord on his big blue hat is disintegrating. And his mouth resembles that of a clown’s (let’s hope that school photos fall on a day of less sucking activity).

Why? I don’t know, he doesn’t know. Let’s add it to the mounting pile of ‘Why does my child…?’ questions, along with smearing poo on the wall and waking at the crack of dawn regardless of the previous night’s bedtime.

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