Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

Life isn’t perfect; it simply cannot be. And anyone who tells you otherwise may be living with little green men, or peeking out from under a toadstool with little winged people surrounding her.

Some people are born with remarkably rose-tinted retinas. Others don rose-tinted glasses on an as-needs basis, kind of aware of what they’re doing. Through this rose tinting, life can appear, well, rosey, even perfect if it’s a strong prescription or a dominant genetic mutation. It serves a protective function – to filter out not-so-perfect thoughts, observations and experiences, so that the precious inner self is not bruised. But what of reality?

I’m lacking in the scented floral department. In fact, I have been accused of being a little pessimistic, and I certainly do feel the negative vibes at times, like when the school boy wakes us all up at 6am on the weekend to go to the toilet, or when the cake sinks in the middle or I slice my finger open on cardboard… But, I would argue that pessimism meets realism along the continuum, whilst optimism can meet delusion. And I’m backing myself up with Joe Forgas (psychologist from the University of NSW), who believes that “people who are a bit on the negative side see the world as it really is”. The others? Picture Tinkerbell in the 60′s.

So if being a little negative is just about being connected with the real world, why do people try to hide the fact that they’re feeling angry, frustrated or fed up? They desperately reach for the rose tinting, either to convince themselves that things are ‘just fine, thank you very much’, or to convince others that they are ‘just fine, thank you, and my life really is perfect – I swear it!’. I can see the value in being optimistic – it can keep you from feeling overwhelmed, helpless or hopeless;  from sinking into despair. It does play an extremely important role in keeping us moving forward, and so maybe it’s about degrees. Because in the absence of a bit of negativity or moments of feeling sad, self-reflection and a connection with the world around us struggle to exist. Pretense and optimism can only carry a person so far before things either implode or explode. The rose tinting acts as a plug to emotional expression and like a blocked drain, what is desperately trying to drain simply sits, festering, bubbling, threatening to erupt in your face.

Life doesn’t have to be perfect; we don’t have to be perfect. And, as Joe points out, “most people worth talking to are slightly depressed.” How far or deep can a conversation based on the perfect state of life go?

Yours florally,
The pessimist/realist

Comment on this post

When it comes to my parenting identity I know who I am, or who I’m becoming.  Without any doubt whatsoever it is 100% certain with a money back guarantee that my husband will sign off on, that I am the following:

1. The boring one
2. The crazy one who dashes about the house cursing quietly (most of the time..there are times when the volume slides upwards) about a ‘bomb site’
3. The paranoid one
4. The demanding one
5. The one with no energy or patience for smart arses
6. The one who dishes out the most ‘don’t do’s’
7. The one who raises her voice

I am The Bad Cop.

It’s not  a pretty picture, laid out like that. A little person sitting on my shoulder is asking me to read over the list carefully and decide if that’s who I really want to be. I assert that there must be someone who plays Bad Cop, or the house would be in chaos and the children would run wild. It’s where I’ve found myself and I think I fulfill the role pretty damn well. But to be honest, it sits uncomfortably. I’m not hoping to be miraculously transformed into the Good Cop, because I have enough insight to know that that is simply not me, but a little balance would be good. And so, I’ve scripted a list of what is required in order to free me up to slide me a little further along the continuum of cops:

1. a housekeeper (and for the in-between times one of those amazing little robot vacuum cleaners that just goes about the house sucking up the dustballs, sand, mulch and dried chook poo)
2. a cook
3. a regular and lengthy period of indulgence
4. a pair of industrial ear plugs
5. horse blinkers
6. no expectations whatsoever
7. horse tranquilizers (only to be used in the case of pending meltdown or hyperactive child behaviour)
8. a Tattslotto win to pay for all of the above

It’d be a start, anyway. See you along the continuum somewhere.

Comment on this post

Cue vision of purple box full of shiny wrappers encasing smooth chocolate….tissue box please. Sweet, velvety favourites. I know I shouldn’t… Is it wrong to have one?

Objectively I have two polar thoughts on this topic:

1. it is just plain wrong to have a favourite
2. it makes sense that you would prefer the company of/get along better with one more than the other; that’s human nature and just because we’re connected by genetics does not mean that we’ll see eye to eye on all things or be the best of friends (just ask anyone with siblings…)

Just quietly, I have a clear preference for one over the other at the moment. Before you burn me at the stake, allow me to paint a picture.

One coos, chuckles and when not happy, can generally be distracted or pacified with a strange noise, something to chew on or a nipple; the other yells, shouts and throws things and can only be pacified by either caving in to his every desire or getting him so upset (by persisting with requests to go to the toilet before bed) that he caves in and collapses in a heap, exhausted from the effort of disobedience.

One naps during the day allowing for some quiet time and opportunity to be a little productive on the home front. The other really could do with a nap most days, but soldiers on, getting more impossible and demanding as the day wears on.

One can’t yet talk back; the other can and does…constantly.

In order to keep my good friend Guilt at bay, I am going to start my own line of boxed chocolates… Preferences.
*Note: expiry date is individualised and may take you by surprise.

Comment on this post

Before conception, you cannot know what it is like to grow and carry another being inside you.

Before labour and giving birth, you cannot know the excruciating pain that awaits, the deep desire to die during the process and the miracle of your own real life baby at the end of it.

Before becoming a parent, you cannot know the fatigue that sucks the rational, organised marrow from your bones, the potential to love until it aches, and the ability to nurture a child with nipples alone.

Before your young child becomes mobile, you cannot know the dangers that lurk in the family home and the blink that it takes to lose sight of them.

Before your child reaches toddler-hood, you cannot know the bizarre interactions you’ll share, the social awkwardness that is cutting observations stated oh so loudly, and the tantrums that will spring upon you, rendering you stupefied and mortified.

Before your child is a preschooler, you cannot know how helpful they can be, how hurtful they can be, how clever they can be, how exhausting they can be and how glad you are that school is around the corner.

Comment on this post

It wouldn’t be fair of me to have written about my battle with the Big Boy and to leave you thinking that that was it – life was forever tarnished with the guilt and pain of a bruised relationship. So I am going to provide you with an uplifting update.

It’s not all peaches, but they are certainly coming into season. Some days are deliciously sweet with the innocence, playfulness, humour and help of the Big Boy. He listens to me, fetches things for me (like a well-trained hound), plays happily by himself and even sends some spontaneous affection my way. It’s the kind of stuff he used to do, that I’d forgotten that he was capable of doing and that now brings tears of relief and pride to my eyes. My blood pressure sits comfortably and my hair stays put on my head (unless the Baby grabs and pulls at it, strands wrapping around his chubby fingers, as I tickle his bare skin with it). Ahhh, this is how it should be.

There are, of course, still days and moments of hurt and frustration, as is part and parcel of parenting. Defiance, rudeness, aggression and hurtful words still leap forth, but rather than let them drown me in misery, I try to let them slide, or I even laugh at them. Recently, a discussion over dinner somehow lead to this delightful declaration from my Big Boy: “You are boring mum.”My husband made a pathetic attempt to stifle his laughter, and then noticing my glare, leapt to my defence. “She is not. Don’t say that, it’s not nice.” But no, my Big Boy insisted, “But she is dad. She’s boring!”. I muttered something in my foggy state about how there has to be someone in the house who is organised and does the boring things, or nothing would get done. It fell on deaf ears, in fact no ears – they had both already left the table, seemingly disinterested in my rebuttal. It was my turn to stifle a giggle. Then a gasp, as it dawned on me that perhaps I had become boring! Fleeting thoughts of ways to spice up my being with some excitement raced through my mind, but were quelled almost immediately by thoughts (driven by fatigue) of ‘too bad’.

And so, it seems that my relationship with Big Boy is on the up and perhaps even turning a corner. What awaits around that corner, who knows?

Comment on this post