Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

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…

Comment on this post

Now, let’s not pretend that we have never thought it, even if only fleetingly. If you try to tell me that it’s never crossed your mind, I simply won’t believe you. The thing is, the Post Office won’t accept a live package, and the practicalities of returning your baby from whence it came…well…hmm. I’ll leave that thought with you. But what about men?

Recent discussions about baby-proofing our future have caused me to reflect on and rant about the lack of physical contribution that the male body makes when it comes to reproductive matters (despite the rather essential  tadpole offering that facilitates baby-making). It’s not their fault, but someone has to be held accountable.

We (women, that is – I am assuming that the majority of you are female) assume at least part of, sometimes sole, responsibility for contraception, before we succumb to ‘instincts’ (or insanity). We ride the waves of nausea, dizziness and erractic eating during pregnancy. We lug a bowling ball on our front (and around our sides if the ball is female….kidding) and then pass this ball through our most delicate orifice in the most primal and undignifying way. We donate our breasts to milk production, inflamed and infected ducts, stretching and then drooping. And then we start back at artificial hormones.

The men? The only transformation that their bodies undergo around the years of reproduction is the loss of some strands of hair, the greying of others and a little more spread around the gut. So, can we return to sender? Or do we just need to accept that women have been chosen for these roles because we are simply braver, stronger and, well, more superior?

Comment on this post

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.

Comment on this post

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.

Comment on this post

To whom it may concern,

I have recently finished using your product ‘Liquid Gold’ (scientifically known as ‘breastmilk’), and so am writing to provide some feedback.

What I love about Liquid Gold is its portability. In my experience it has been readily on tap – at the right temperature and in the right amount. Both its incredible cost effectiveness and its ease of use makes it a stand out product in its category.

There are however, a few frustrating aspects of Liquid Gold that I would like to draw to your attention:
1. Whilst it can, with much time, effort and mess, be provided to the baby by a man, its great dependence on mothers can be burdensome. Is it possible that you could look into somehow making it ‘on tap’ by men as well?
2. No where on the packaging does it state the potential for addiction. I am convinced that my youngest child developed an addiction of sorts, perhaps to Liquid Gold itself, but also to the method by which it is delivered (even more reason to look into the issue above)
3. The well advertised benefits of increased protection against all things nasty (germs, allergies etc) have eluded my youngest. He has seen very few days in his 11 months of ‘good health’ – coughs, snuffles, tummy upsets – and has shown signs of eczema from early on. Are the benefits supposed to be immediate and for the duration of the product’s use, or is this ‘protection’ only evident in later years? Do the benefits cease to apply if the child has an older sibling who attends child care or school, or the child himself attends child care with all of its festering ill health?
4. When a decsion has been made to stop using Liquid Gold, I have had issues with pipe blockages. Is there an inbuilt mechanism within the product that makes it difficult to stop using it, or is there a fault somewhere along the tubes?

Thank you for your time.

Regards,
P. Runes

And that’s the end of that chapter.

Comment on this post