My Big Boy enters the realm of Big Schooldom next year (cue massive sigh of relief from somewhere…surely not me?) and orientation sessions have begun. I should start by saying that my husband and I are the salmon of the ‘when to send your children to school’ river- our boy will be starting school at the fragile but boistrous age of four. I mention that to excuse him from any bad behavior or failure to thrive at big school. It’s always useful to have excuses for your children at the ready – eases the guilt somewhat. Anyway, last week I psyched the both of us up for a 45 minute P.E lesson with Rosie. I had admirable, anxious-parent-of-a-new-school-kid plans to get there in plenty of time so that we could both be calm, collected and definitely not the last to walk into the big, open gymnasium. But, as life seems to roll at present, we screeched to a halt outside the school fence with two minutes to spare and no time for a briefing. We raced through the gates, hand in hand as I explained that this was the warm up exercise, in order not to panic him. After making me proud by spelling his name to the young teacher at the table, he was labelled and hussled into the middle of the gym to find a place on the yellow line among 20 or so other kinder kids. I found my perch along the side wall next to a woman with a new baby nestled peacefully in a sling, and a boy of about two standing like a little angel beside her (I instantly felt like a  major wimp, having left my  little one at home with his daddy in case he dare cried while we were out!).

Now I’m already aware of my potential to become that mum, courtesy of swimming lessons. I have only been a few times to witness my Big Boy splashing about, but each time I have nearly boiled over with frustration and the effort of preventing myself from lurching forward to unleash a torrent of discipline and advice about technique (having been a little pro swimmer myself, I know all there is to know about teaching 4 year olds how to swim). I have had to look away at times to suck in deep, deep breaths and to remind myself that:

1. there is a teacher in the pool with him, who is qualified to teach swimming (though I haven’t seen her certificate…)
2. I am not in charge – she is (a control freak’s worst nightmare)
3. they are only kids (another excuse)
4. it’s okay to have a bit of fun while learning (but not too much, cos we pay money for this!)
5. everyone will stare, point  and label me as that parent if I keep jumping out of my plastic seat to stand on the edge of the pool glaring and threatening

So, I knew what I was up against when I entered the gym with my excitable 4 year old. Things started out okay while activities were simple and instructions basic. But when the friendly Rosie (or Mrs Lumsdon for the those kids) upped the ante and had them multi-tasking with more skill than my boy has, things started to unravel for him, and then  me. He began to look around him, trying to figure out what to do with his hands and feet and blue beanbag, but decided pretty quickly that it would be a hell of a lot easier to just go nuts, jumping about, throwing the beanbag and laughing at himself.

My pulse began to race – the struggle to control my urges was on, BIG time. I initially used the power of my mind and any eye contact we made to send him messages of encouragement. You can do it. Keep trying love. Then, Stop mucking around! You’re not even trying! That didn’t work, so I started on Rosie. Can’t you see the boy is struggling? Shouldn’t you be helping him or something? For gods sake, HELP THE BOY!

Still nothing. My Big Boy continued to be that kid and I attempted to stifle any evidence of being that parent (I wonder how many other mums were aware of my constant fiddling with the coat buckle, shifting feet and clenched teeth?). Thank god the class ended when it did, because my heart was either going to shatter on behalf of my son and his lack of skill or explode with the galloping thump thumping of a parent who is on the verge of losing it. Mrs Lumsdon’s class could well have been the unravelling of both of us – a reputation established months and months before we even start at the school. I must be on high alert, stay focused and avoid watching my son participate in anything!

‘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!

Sounds impressive, yes? Amusing? Perhaps even useful? Possibly, but the majority of the time it does my head in.
Reason 1: I am paranoid about the baby getting squished by his big brother, accidentally or not*. My son seems to have developed two left feet and lost his center of gravity over the last 6 months, leaving him susceptible to tripping, stumbling and crashing upon any attempt at functional movement. Add singing and ‘dancing’ (I fear he may have inherited his father’s awkward style) and the result is generally bruising and breakages. Now throw in a baby on the floor. Not good for my mental health.

Reason 2: I have developed my mother’s sensitivity to noise (acutally, it’s more of an intolerance, perhaps even an aversion).  Not great when you’re a mother to two young boys, so I may need to jam that into the Must Work On drawer of my Personality Traits filing cabinet. With entertainment comes lots of noise (because, along with the thumping of his Big Boy feet, his singing leaves a lot to be desired). So for musically trained ears and hypercritical and hypersensitive tendencies, it’s all just a bit much.

But despite the damage I incur to the delicate thread of sanity I have stowed away, the baby LOVES IT! He smiles with his entire face until his cheeks consume his eyes. He chuckles and coos, oblivious to the danger that crashes around him. While I’m gripping onto my trackie pants, white-knuckled, stifling screams of panic and over-stimulation, he follows his brother’s every move and provides my Big Boy with all the encouragement he needs to continue entertaining. So, for the sake of the greater good, The Entertainer will carry on performing, much to the delight of his biggest fan, a defenseless but happy little brother.

*To heighten my paranoia and take me back to square one in my attempt to overcome the beast, my Big Boy did attempt to squash the baby recently, but let’s talk about that another time, when I am seeing a lighter shade of red.

People refer to hindsight as being ‘great’. Truth be told, I think it’s rather irritating. There are times when I would rather have a complete lack of insight, because what I seem to learn from hindsight frustrates me and there’s nothing I can do about it, bar time travel, and I can’t afford that.

Hindsight has delivered two main learnings, as I have reflected on my Big Boy’s babyhood:

1. A mummy does know her body and her baby better than anyone else, and if we were allowed to just get on the with the job, we would probably do it better! I nearly punched a midwife when she came to check how breastfeeding was going with child number two. ‘Yeah, we’re doing well, thanks,’ I had reported proudly. At this point I expected her to smile sweetly, congratulate me and float quietly from the room with her clipboard. Not so. Having never laid eyes on me or Baby before this encounter, she suggested that I try a different feeding technique, just because ‘that’s how you’re meant to do it’. Serious? I just said that we were doing fine, NOW LEAVE US ALONE!

2. No bomb is going to explode if you attempt to put baby to breast before the recommended two and a half hours is up. If the baby is hungry, feed it – it may well have a big appetite (as my Big Boy does, and obviously did). All those times I panicked and clumsily squished him into the pram’s cocoon to pacify him with a bolt around the block because it had only been two hours since his last feed, he was probably thinking, ‘Is this woman crazy? All I want is a god damned drink!’

3. If your baby happens to fall asleep while you’re cuddling him, you’re not setting him up for complete dependence on cuddles for achieving sleep for the rest of his life. Enjoy those baby cuddles because Big Boys prefer to simply jump on you.

Being a Control Freak is exhausting. You must keep tabs on everything, constantly analysing, pre-empting and taking charge. Things must go according to a plan (preferably one of your own). No, really, they must, because any hint of straying from what Must Be leads to utter chaos and meltdown. And it’s not just in your own life that you have this massive responsibility of ensuring that the plan is implemented without hitch – you are bound by the rules of Control Freaks United to ensure that everyone and everything else conforms. Phew!

Now enter the baby – a bundle of squawks that has spent roughly the last nine months in a dark sac of warm water, floating without concern for rules and plans. This is a Control Freak’s worst nightmare – no predictability, no plan, just needs that must be met. This little human is a non-conformist, determined to do her own thing, on her own watch (and the watch has no numbers….). FEED ME NOW! CHANGE ME! CUDDLE ME – NO, NOT LIKE THAT! GET MY GAS UP! Etcetera. Oh, and DON’T YOU DARE DISTURB ME WHEN I’M SLEEPING!

Being organised is great. Having a strategy is great as well. But trying to control a newborn is not such a great idea, trust me. There is no black and white (I have learnt to pity those who experience a more severe form of my condition, which manifests in a firm belief that black and white exists, that there are reasons for all newborn or child behaviour and basic solutions to all acts of straying from the plan or breaking the rules. For them, life must be unbearable). There is no recipe, no exact formula, just a whole lot of grey.

Day to day life now becomes the hardest thing you have ever tried to control. No matter how structured and timetabled you intend it to be, there are always curveballs – a massive, sticky poo filling a nappy or a chunky vomit all over your new outfit just before you step out the door. Pick up the phone to make a call or peel off your clothes to step into the shower and the baby will start screaming for your attention. Dare to meet up with a friend for a coffee and your little angel will have her longest nap on record, right through the allotted caffeine time.

Of course the other target for Control Freaks is our partners/husbands. This is a time when you’re both treading water hard, desperately trying not to sink. The last thing he needs is someone to hover over him, monitoring, correcting and taking over when things aren’t done to your specifications. Like vulnerable new mums, dads need time to find their feet, adjust to their role and build up their confidence. Ignore the inside-out singlet. Let him find his own way of holding the baby (it’s true that a baby’s head/neck needs to be managed carefully, but seriously, it won’t fall off!). Have a laugh, rather than a bitch, about the mis-match of an outfit he’s clothed your little one in. The biggest lesson for members of Control Freaks United is to learn to better control our own way of thinking, acting and re-acting  (I am still attending classes regularly…am yet to pass the subject).

Being a member of Control Freaks United can make parenting just that little bit more challenging, but I have done my best to use the transition into parenthood as an opportunity to tame this personality trait of mine. It will always be a part of me, I’m afraid, but adding two kids to the partnership equation has certainly forced me to loosen the reigns and forgo any solid plans to shower.

My little boys are growing up. It was inevitable I guess, but in the chaos and distraction of everyday life, these observations can slide by. I was warned that this would happen, and advised to cherish every moment because before I knew it, my kids would be all grown up. I recognise that now.

It took the arrival of a newborn for me to realise how big my big boy had become in the blink of an eye. After feeding the baby at night, I often sneak into his room and stand over him, gazing in disbelief. Those fingers are so long and solid. The fluffy covering on his head has been replaced with thick, coarse hair and the gentle pant of breathing is now a snore and dribble. This boy, now four, has conversations, argues, scoots, plays Wii, has friends and is going to school next year.

Where did time go?

A chat I had recently with a fellow mum lead me to pause and reflect on this motherhood thing. I had only met her for the first time and yet we chatted, on and on, all afternoon, exchanging stories and views and, most importantly, debriefing about just how hard the parenting gig is. That in itself was enough to stimulate discussion that could have carried on for days on end. We only stopped because it was time to take our boys home to bed.

This Club is exclusively for mums. No amount of money, nor begging or persuasion will permit entry of a non-mother. That’s just how it is. Sounds a bit upperty, perhaps? It’s not, but it is special. The Club offers free, life-time membership (though some might argue that giving birth is a fairly hefty price to pay for the privilege) and unlimited moaning. There are no rules about who to talk to or what to say and there are always free shoulders to lean on, cry on or stand on, if that’s the way you’re inclined.

You see, with mums comes an innate rivalry, from the time of conception – ‘How long did it take you to conceive? Had any morning sickness?’ Pregnant women cannot help but compare their changing bodies to others – ‘I wonder how far along she is? Do I look that puffy? Does my load look that wide? Do I walk that awkwardly?’ Then it’s on to labour and birth – ‘How long were you in labour? Did you have any pain relief? Need stitches? How big was your baby?’ And while those discussions never entirely grow old, the focus then shifts to the actual child – ‘Are you breastfeeding? How often do you get up at night? Does your baby have a pacifier? (just call it a dummy, alright?!) Is she smiling/rolling over/reciting poems?’ On and on and on.

‘Not me!’, you may protest. ‘I am not a competitive person!’ But I challenge you to reflect. It’s not always a conscious thing and not all bad. Whilst these constant comparisons (or ‘quality checks’) can leave you feeling fat and deflated at the same time, they serve many purposes: to normalise our own experience, reinforce our efforts and strengthen the bond we have with our own child. Mummy rivalry can be used for good or evil and whilst the rules of The Club are non-existent, it is hoped that mums will use their membership for the greater good, to provide an opportunity for debriefing, seeking advice and sharing experience.

Motherhood is one of the toughest challenges that exist, so it’s nice to know that there are others out there, battling their way through the gauntlet with you. It’s too easy to judge or criticise a fellow member (because we’re all experts, aren’t we? Especially me…) but the beauty of motherhood and parenting is that there is no wrong or right way about it.  I’m in The Club and whilst I have to work tirelessly to quiet the fierce rivalry that simmers beneath the surface of many mummy interactions (I’m afraid a genetic predisposition compounds the mum factor) I raise my right hand and pledge to do my utmost to use my membership for Good. After all, every mum needs another mummy to turn to.

But since the conception of that post things have changed a little in the back yard. The balance of gender within the family has shifted. Death has entered and burial ceremonies have been held. Earlier this week Daisy and Crash passed away.

Daisy and Crash were two of the lovely ladies in the chicken house. Daisy was the gregarious silky bantam; the sociable one who was keen to explore our vegie patch and our compost. She would come out to greet us and didn’t shy away too much when we approached her (though the thump of small Cars gumboots towards her made her a little more jumpy). Daisy was the explorer – in fact she went so far as to explore the park over our back fence and the nature strip outside our house a while back. Crash was given her name by nature of the fact that she often tumbled off the ramp half way through her descent from the pen, landing with a crash on the ground below.

Anyway, they were our little ladies and now they are no longer, thanks to a highly contagious chook disease (that I’ve been told will likely take Tree Trunk, the third girl, with it in the near future). This has been our son’s first exposure to dying and death and I have to say, he’s handling it well. There were no tears, though that would’ve been okay, even though he is a boy (KIDDING!!). Rather, father and son set about fetching their digging tools from the shed and digging a hole, or two, to place these not so soft and fluffy chickens in. We said a few words (there isn’t much to say to a bantam who has only been around for a few short months…) and filled in the holes.

My son didn’t say much after that, except to confirm Daisy’s departure later that night – ‘So mum….Daisy’s dead.’ “Yep. Bit sad, hey?’ ‘Yeah…’. There wasn’t a barrage of questions about life and death and what happens next, thank god, cos I don’t really have one of those speeches prepared. I wonder how long Tree Trunk will give me to whip one up…?

** In regard to ‘counting chickens’, the baby boy did not begin his transition into once nightly feeding after that one delicious night. No siree. Wouldn’t want to be too predictable, would he? That would just be boring. Perhaps the death of two bantams was a sign, a warning to me about the danger of counting chickens.

Mia Freedman referred to it recently as ‘backseat parenting’ – when others generously impart their parenting wisdom on you, ready or not. Everyone seems to have an opinion – another parent, a non-parent (I like to refer to them as The Sane Ones), family, friend, stranger… There are experts everywhere! Aren’t we, the parents of the child who is up for analysis, so fortunate to be surrounded by such a wealth of knowledge and experience?

I don’t want to sound ungrateful – as a parent, support from others is crucial to survival. I often seek an opinion or some advice when it comes to working out my kids – my foggy, indecisive and often anxious mind doesn’t always permit the clearest of thoughts or rational problem solving. Plus, talking to someone else about an issue, whether it be a defiant preschooler or a windy baby, gives me an excuse to debrief  (otherwise known as whinging), and that, in all seriousness, is just as necessary to my sanity as getting practical help.

The thing is, some advice is sought and some is dished up, complete with feeding assistance (the spoon invariably overloaded and then reloaded as soon as it touches our lips). Some is offered out of a genuine desire to help and some is served with an icy cold side dish of know-it-all-ism. You know the people I’m talking about – they know everything about everything and believe that it is their duty to enlighten and educate the rest of us poor souls.

Parenting is trial and error, no matter what anyone says, published or otherwise. It can turn the most confident, capable and organised individual into a self-doubting, second guessing and balding shadow of a being, especially for those of us who are members of Control Freaks United. We absurdly assume that being parents, by nature of the fact that we have children, is qualification enough to know exactly what to do with our children and this ludicrous belief renders us highly vulnerable to the crushing effects of backseat parenting (with the exception of the Know It Alls).

So am I the least informed when it comes to my kids? Whilst my vulnerable inner child calls ‘maybe….’ in a pathetic whisper, I will stubbornly answer ‘NO!’, so that the backseat parents among us don’t succeed in wriggling their way into the Ford Focus drivers seat to send me tumbling down a slippery, prickly embankment.

I am breastfeeding and proud of it. Proud in the knowledge that my breasts alone are able to sustain another human life. Proud that I am boosting my child’s health, present and future. Proud that this feeding has facilitated my recovery from pregnancy and birth (though the effectiveness of breastfeeding in vanishing stretch marks is yet to be demonstrated). But most of all I am proud that I am managing to make myself available to this child 24 hours a day, 7 days a week…ALL THE TIME. I’m on-call, on alert, on demand.

Proud, but somewhat resentful. Can’t I just have a wee break? I wasn’t feeling quite so disgruntled until recently, when a fellow mummy sighed, citing new parent fatigue. I nodded enthusiastically and released a mammoth sigh of my own, setting myself up for a whinge about breastfeeding on demand and the broken sleep and limited independence it necessitated. That discussion never eventuated because my conversation partner went on to state that her baby fed like clockwork, every four hours, and that, with the assistance of her husband, she was able to sleep from 9pm til 4am. I was dumbfounded and insanely jealous. Her trick? Bottle feeding.

My breast pride melted away and I felt cheated. Why couldn’t I get that much sleep? Why couldn’t I just up and leave the house, not having to worry about being back within two hours in case my udder was required or requested? And remind me, why, why did I choose to breastfeed? Oh, that’s right, the health benefits, the cost benefits, the convenience. Convenience? I’ll tell you what would be convenient – to give my breasts to someone else for a day and get some rest!

I hadn’t really appreciated how physically and emotionally draining breastfeeding can be. It is a sacrifice, a selfless gift to my child. So to all breastfeeding women out there, charge your glasses. Here’s to us leaking, lumpy, squirty, sleepy dairy cattle. Three cheers! Cue chink of glasses and, of course, spilt milk.