Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

Mary had a little lamb, it bleated in its cot.
She turned around the other day, a little lamb ’twas not.
For it had grown in length and weight, its eyes alert and bright,
Its bleat had been replaced with BAAA, first fleece now way too tight.
One blink was all that it did take for changes such as these
So now she props her eyelids up with matches, if you please.

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?

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I’m in The Club. I wasn’t invited into it, nor sent there via recommendation. I didn’t seek it out…it found me. When I became a mum I was automatically signed up, for life.

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.

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I began writing this post a couple of weeks ago. The plan was to talk about ‘counting chickens’. You know, counting them before they hatch and the warning that comes with doing so. I was going to make reference to my baby boy’s sleeping and the temptation to start counting those chooks after one good night (which equates to getting up only once to feed).

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.

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Why is it that everyone else knows more about my children than me? Did I miss an important lecture or tutorial at which all knowledge about them and solutions for their problems, was imparted? Did I nod off at the wrong time or make the mistake of turning this valuable information into white noise?

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.

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Breast is best, according to the experts, but gee it would be nice to have the power to transfer these breasts of mine to someone else for a day.

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.

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