Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

A wise woman recently reminded me that it takes a village to raise a child. Another equally wise woman referred to it as a ‘community’. Either way, you get the point.

Children need a variety of influences in their lives; people other than their parents to guide them, make them laugh and look out for them. People to spoil them, loosen the reigns a little and smother them with hugs and kisses.

My point is that it also takes a village to support parents. No one will argue with a parent who acknowledges just how demanding and exhausting parenting is (and if they dare try, send them my way). It’s relentless. It’s wearing, and there are times, many of them, when an extra pair of hands are most welcome – someone to give you a break from this 24 hour a day, volunteer work. It might come in the form of practical assistance (some help with the grocery shopping, an offer to do some dusting or gardening); it could be an offer to mind the kids while you get on with all of those tasks that just never seem to get done. It might be an offer to have the kids for a night so that you and your partner can sleep peacefully and get up when your own body clock, rather  than that of your child, tells you to. Small things, simple things. Sanity-saving things.

It takes a village. We get run-down, squint through the fog and reach the end of our tethers, and we wonder why. Some parents have a wide, or small but dedicated community around them. Are they the lucky ones, or just examples of how it ought to be? Has the concept and existence of ‘community’ changed? Are we expected to shoulder much more of the burden than we used to, or are we just a more whingey parental bunch than our hard-working, uncomplaining older generations?

Whether you refer to it as a village or community, it’s about support and assistance. Stuff that makes survival that little bit easier; stuff that keeps sanity within reach.

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He sucks and sucks and sucks. Oh, hang on, you might not know who I’m referring to. There are, after all, three males in the house. It’s not the Baby (no, he has been convinced to give up the nipple addiction..sort of..though his lunge towards the drooping left one in the bath tonight suggests that he still has some way to go in therapy). It’s not my husband either. That leaves the School Boy.

Anything will do – cords on clothes, buttons on clothes, toys, the TV remote. He’s not even aware that he’s doing it. So why does he do it? I know that our rabbit used to lick our skin in order to get extra salt. I know that babies suck for comfort, and probably out of boredom too. Has he decided that his little brother was on to something and there is great joy to be had by having a suck? Is he parched? Does he enjoy the tingle and sting of the eczema that surrounds his mouth as a result?

To my great relief, I’ve seen other kids in his class do it too – the cords on school hoodies and hats seem to be popular for a suck. But that doesn’t make it any less bizarre or disgusting. The handles of his library bag are drenched and stinky. The cord on his big blue hat is disintegrating. And his mouth resembles that of a clown’s (let’s hope that school photos fall on a day of less sucking activity).

Why? I don’t know, he doesn’t know. Let’s add it to the mounting pile of ‘Why does my child…?’ questions, along with smearing poo on the wall and waking at the crack of dawn regardless of the previous night’s bedtime.

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We haven’t really spoken before, in the six or so years that we’ve been living here. She’s the lady a few doors down on the opposite side of the road with the push mower that seems to never stop. Yet last week she stopped to say hello as the School Boy and I weeded the front lawn (an activity to keep him out of trouble indoors, rather than an obsession with perfection).

Our conversation was a breath of fresh air. I’ve always known that I’m not alone, but it’s not often that the words are aerated and given free reign. Powerful words shared between mothers who could otherwise tuck the thoughts away in a secret compartment, never to see the light of day. “I’m just not designed to be a stay-at-home mum.” Ahhh. “Me neither! Me neither!” I squealed, inwardly, aware of the keen kiddy ears only a few steps away. My eyes lit up as I recognised a fellow mum who worked, not because she absolutely had to, or because she adored her job, but because she knew that she wasn’t designed to stay home full-time with her child.

It doesn’t mean we love our children any less than stay-at-home mums. It doesn’t mean that we weren’t designed to be mothers. And it certainly doesn’t mean that work is more important than family (though it sure pays better). It’s just the realisation that comes with allowing myself to be who I am, not who I think I should be or who I think others think I should be. It’s a free pass out of the jail of guilt that comes with handing your kids over to someone else for a day or three. I’m just not designed to be a stay-at-home mum. What a brilliant thing fresh air is.

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I know I should be grateful that my human yearning to feel needed and wanted is being more than fulfilled at present, but I can’t help feeling a little, well, clung.

He is all over me, like a fly on fresh poo, all the time. It’s not enough for me to be in the same room or within eyesight, he has to be ON me. And no, it’s not my husband.

The Baby loves me dearly, as I do him, but I’m starting to wonder if there is actually some magnetic mechanism connecting the two of us. Something that results in pain for him if the physical distance is too great, and overwhelming joy and relief if he is in direct contact with me. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that my reactions are the polar opposite, but I don’t seem to suffer the effects of the magnets quite so acutely.

The funny thing is that this only works if he knows I’m around. If I’m not in the house at all, he does not suffer a complete meltdown, balling inconsolably until my return. But the moment I’m within view or sound – BANG! – the magnets fire up and he charges, rather slowly and awkwardly in his crawl-come-bum shuffle way, towards me, crying and whinging until the pain subsides upon contact.

And so, this little magnet of mine clings to me as though his life depends on it. I guess it’s understandable, given that his life did actually depend on it when he was solely breastfed. And I do give a damn fine hug. But it wears a little thin at times, not only with me but with the School Boy, who battles for my attention and hugs. We may well need an examination to locate these magnets and surgery to remove them, but that sounds a little scary. He is my baby, and, as I’m constantly informed by mothers who are further along the journey than I am, the magnets will likely begin to repel at some stage and I won’t be able to get him close enough for a hug.

So perhaps, rather than the more invasive and drastic treatment, we’ll opt for the conservative approach  -

1. distraction
2. sneaking (so as not to be heard or seen when I actually need to complete a task without a 10kg leech attached to me)

I am otherwise clung.

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You know that your breasts have had enough when a glance at a peach on the fruit bowl reminds you of them.

They started out as firm, shiny nectarines (let’s not even pretend that they ever got close to resembling melons of any kind) – plump, juicy, full of goodness. They have now begun to resemble a pair of dull, furry, shrivelled up peaches, perfect for feeding to the chooks.

You also know that your breasts are nearing their used by when you wind up feeling like death, lying in bed all weekend, courtesty of a pink line that marks the spot of a blocked duct. A mechanism tiring, losing efficiency, screaming out to be switched off.

You know that your breasts are growing weary when that first maternity bra now gapes embarrassingly, a clear indication of the space that was once filled.

Don’t get me wrong, when a feed is missed, they do their utmost to mimic the nectarines of an earlier era, but they are forever changed, more suited to a life swimming in fruit juice, locked away in a tin can to be served with something a little more appealing, like ice-cream.

As the Baby becomes less of a baby, and more of a cookie monster, keen for something, anything to chomp down on and create an unbelievable mess with, the peaches are realising that their time is nearing for retirement. I wish them a smooth, painless transition into their new phase of existence. Peaches and cream anyone?

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