Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

It’s true, there are headquarters for happiness. It doesn’t matter that it’s only temporary or for the purposes of a reality TV show. It’s amazing, don’t you think?

This show, which aims to make Australians happier, has me hooked. The fact that it’s on the TV (I don’t need to go to the effort of picking up a book and turning pages) and at a time when the two boys are theoretically asleep (theoretically) is half the attraction. The other half is that it’s got me reflecting on my parenting.

I love a good reflection (dimmed lights are helpful). Of course with reflection comes guilt, about all the things you have been doing sub-optimally, hopelessly or just neglecting to do. Most parents could probably write a big fat book detailing our shortcomings and failures – ’101 things I do on a daily basis that may well ruin my child’s life’; ‘Stuff kids up, the fast way’; ‘My kids hate me and here’s why’. You get the gist. But drowning in guilt is not the aim of the happiness game.

Apparently, if we want to be happier we should be focusing on that thing, I mean all those things, that we do well. It makes sense, doesn’t it? And I think, as a parenting cohort, we’re a wee bit pathetic at it. And so, as a means of encouraging all of you brilliant parents and parents-to-be out there, I’m going to get the happiness ball rolling, pushing aside those guilty reflections, feelings of inadequacy and failure, and list what it is that I am proud of as a parent.

1. We are raising two boys (by genetics or our brilliant environmental influence) who are happy and sociable.
2. We are raising two boys who truly value family and love to be surrounded by aunites, uncles, grandmas and grandpas
3. We are nurturing in our boys a real concern for the well-being of others
4. We are nurturing confidence in being around and engaging with unfamiliar people. In fact, like my Nan, the Big Boy will talk to anyone about absolutely anything!
5. We provide a healthy diet and lots of discussion about food and good health (having vegie patches and chooks in the yard go a long way to facilitating this education)
6. We encourage a thirst for knowledge
7. We encourage our boys to value and appreciate what they have
8. We encourage self-reflection, an awareness of emotions and the impact that someone’s words or actions can have on another person
9. We have rules and boundaries and we stick to them. More so, we explain what we’re doing and why, so that there are consequences rather than punishments (which are really about parental control, not teaching a child).
10. We are affectionate and forthcoming with praise
11. We provide a stable life with a roof over our heads and meals on the table

So there. Evidence in writing that I am, in fact, doing a damn fine job at this parenting thing. Now, tidal wave of endless, overwhelming happiness be forthcoming.

Your turn.

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Doctors are clever. They know a lot about the workings of the human body, and so we go to them when we are sick or injured, needing a diagnosis, advice and perhaps medicine. We place our faith in their knowledge and skill and then pay the bill.

Most of us would be happy to sit through a brief consultation and do what we’re told at the end of it, whether it be to book in for tests, fill a prescription or lay off the chocolate. We do it because the Great Doctor told us to and we are mere mortals. As a parent, this blind faith is heightened exponentially, because it is our dear little children who are at stake. We are entirely responsible for their health and wellbeing and in order to ease our own anxiety and guilt, we just want them fixed (oh, and we want them to feel better too!)!

But you know what? Doctors are human (well, most anyway) and therefore fallible. They are also providing a service and we are their paying customers. So why is it that we get struck by blind faith when we walk into that poky little office with shiny equipment and walls laden with certificates? Why do we sit opposite the stethoscope-wearing Doc and hand over our child and trust completely?

If we’re lucky we get a coherent, interested professional who satisfies our need to know what’s wrong and provides a remedy. Job done. But all too often we walk out feeling baffled, with more questions than answers. Yet somehow, with a prescription or similarly medical-looking slip in hand, we feel safe; sure in the belief that our child has been appropriately tended to, and that’s the main thing. Isn’t it?

We don’t ask all those questions that are scribbled on a list in our minds. We don’t seek clarification when the mumble is incoherent or an explanation when the medical jargon flies over our heads. We don’t ask Doc to slow down, write it down or say it again. So when it comes to our health and the health of our children, is being satisfied with an outcome of sorts satisfactory enough?

We are entitled to more than a script. We deserve digestible explanations, thoughtful answers and proper consultation. Like any business, we have the right to seek the best service possible and to shop around until we are satisfied. Faith ought to be earned and wide-eyed. Just a thought.

This rant was brought to you by a the letter ‘O’ and a recent appointment with a paediatrician, to whom we will not be returning.

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We don’t have one, but they look cool.

Just to confuse you, I’m actually talking about life when parenting begins. Simple things, identifiable on their own, added to a bowl with other simple things, known things, tangible things. These ingredients are parts of who you are. When that first baby arrives, your identity is placed in a mix master and the switch is turned on. Gently at first, caressing the elements of your being, encouraging them to introduce themselves, mould themselves and transform themselves. Then the speed dial shifts and before you know it those basic ingredients have been blended beyond recognition. Sometimes the mix master can whiz out of control, bouncing along the kitchen bench, the cord straightening and stretching, the beaters whizzing frantically with elements of your self flying over the top of the bowl, splattering the tiles, the walls, the floor and the knife block.

What you turn out of the bowl (if you manage to switch the mix master off momentarily) probably depends on perspective. I used to think that my mixture had been way over-worked and there was no hope of salvaging the wreckage, or extracting useful bits out of it. But I’m beginning to understand that the mix master of parenting was probably just the shake up that life and I needed (apologies if I sound too philosophical or just plain irritating).

Thanks to the mix master I am more aware of what makes me tick and what ticks me off; what drives me and what drives me round the bend; what makes me sick (literally, it’s fatigue and stress and preschooler germs) and what I am sick of; who matters and why; what energy is (or is not) and where I want to spend it; what friendship and support are, who can give it and who I can give it to.

The beauty of the mix master is that you can keep adding ingredients until what you see, smell and taste is to your liking. There is no recipe; everyone’s batch is unique and that’s what makes this parenting thing both terrifying and rewarding.

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Might sound strange, coming from the mouth or laptop of an atheist. Let me reassure you – I haven’t just woken up with a whole new belief system, had an epiphany or been smoking anything illegal, but I have found a God and he lives under my roof!

‘Domestic Goddess’ – a term that could never and will never be applied to yours truly. Never. So, no, it’s not me and it’s not, surprisingly, my Big Boy or baby. That leaves my husband. Could it be? Yes, yes, yes! I’m not sure that he’ll appreciate being labelled a God, let alone a Domestic God, but what the hell. He deserves the accolade.

And so to a tale, to make you all green with envy (or perhaps not, if you’re lucky enough to have one of your own). Last week I went out at night, leaving my husband with Big Boy to put to bed and the baby to ‘mind’ (note: baby is breastfed, not taking a bottle and usually has a rollover feed at 9:30pm.) One minute before arriving home he called, to let me know (very calmly, to his credit) that the baby had awoken of his own accord, apparently aware that his late night feed was well overdue. I screeched to a halt, partially mounting the curb outside our house, having decided that it would be quicker to commence feeding with a dash from the road than the garage. There was no panic as he helped me get organised and no complaint when I jumped into bed alongside him to feed the noisy sucker.

It was a late night, not drifting into my favourite place in the world until after midnight and so, needless to say, when the baby awoke at the crack of dawn the next morning, after being drained left and right, I was reluctant to get out of bed. My husband got up with both kids and before I emerged a couple of hours later, had cleared the bench of the previous day’s coated dishes, put on a load of washing (that includes handling the stinky modern nappies) and vacuumed.

And so to you, my husband, co-creator of Big Boy and the baby and Domestic God, I charge my glass and toast to years of domestic bliss (no pressure). Cheers!

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“That lady has big, red hair, doesn’t she?”

“That man has a very big beard.”

“There’s no seats for the brown man, are there?”

Aghhh! It has begun. The wanting to shrink or dissolve or evaporate into nothingness as my toddler makes observations about the people around him. Accurate, they are. Truthful, they are. Innocent, yes. A bit too loud and socially not quite on the mark? Absolutely!

My sister asked me if I had told him off; explained that it is not the right thing to do, to make these observations in an audible manner. But, no, I didn’t. He is not observing with menace, simply using his quickly developing language skills and desire for conversation to comment on the world around him. “Yes, you’re right,” I told him. ”There are not many seats left on the train.”

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