Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

There’s been plenty of toil and trouble in our house of late, and emotions may have gotten a  little out of hand.

Of course, the Big Boy (who shall be known from this moment onwards as the School Boy) has started school, and his behaviour has been a little bizarre. I may have mentioned poo on the walls. But that’s nothing compared to the flash backs to those glorious days of the two’s. In the last week, the docile library and a clothing shop have fallen victim to the School Boy’s tremendous, tormenting tantrums. Tiny triggers have sparked major defiance, followed swiftly by screaming and kicking. Nothing, absolutely nothing will calm him down as he continues to howl and make labour-like animal noises all the way home. That’s him. Me?

Perhaps it’s the frustration at knowing that I couldn’t get away with his tantrum, when in fact I have a deep desire to do exactly the same. But my temper doesn’t fair much better. The fury that is ignited when he insists on being defiant, laughing in my face and being completely sociably impossible, is scary. My eyes threaten to burst forth from their sockets and my hands ache to strangle or rip a head clean off. The capacity to feel such anger and the fear that I will one day let go of the thin thread that keeps me from snapping is terrifying.

‘Just walk away,’ I hear the crowds urging. Walk away? Leave him to throw items off shelves and to trip up the frail elderly (with his running down the isle at full pelt followed by skidding along the polished wooden floors on his knees…)? Leave him to understand, by the absence of reprimand, that such behaviour is okay? True, it’s probably a better option than the one that I took, which resulted in afore-mentioned major meltdown. But how would I feel if he did break stuff, injure someone else or even himself (he is known to be just a tad clumsy and prone to the oopsies)?

‘Oh, go easy on him love. He’s just started school and he’s probably out of sorts.’ True, again. But how much do you forgive? How much do you loosen the reigns during each and every transition in life?

He’s not two, and neither am I, and yet we both seem to find a way to behave and react as such. The only difference at the moment, is that I am managing to contain a little more of my rage than him. Just.

Comment on this post

I have three and I haven’t always liked them, or agreed with them. We’ve kicked, scratched, screamed and hurtled objects and insults at each other, mostly when we were younger. We’ve teased, tormented and tortured. So why introduce a second child to a family when all of the afore-mentioned awaits (or is that just my family?)

We deliberated for a while about a second child and one of the things that weighed in favour of having another was just this – so that our Big Boy would have a sibling. Now I know that ‘onlys’ can and do turn out just fine thank you very much, but there is so much that can be learned and gained from having a sibling and there’s something in it for the parents too!

Whilst my entrance into a room brings a smile to the baby’s face, it quickly turns into a desperate attempt to get to me and rip my top off (breastfeeding continues, in case you were wondering what this bizarre behaviour is about). I have to work for the chuckles and the squeals of delight, at times praying that there is no hidden camera in the house or curious neighbour walking by to witness the charade. The Big Boy, on the other hand, merely has to show his face, or simply go about being who he is in order to elicit a beaming, gummy smile from the baby. The joy and excitment that the baby experiences when his big, noisy, adoring brother is around is palpable and beautiful, and, at present, nothing can replace that.

Siblings also bring benefits in the form of respite for the parents (and let’s all face it, a little respite goes a hell of a long way!). The Big Boy can jiggle a rattly toy in his face to pacify him on a long car trip, or give us a sleep/wake/position update as we travel, to save our necks and backs from awkward twisting. He can sit behind him on the floor in case of an overbalance and subsequent head bang. He can entertain while we busy ourselves with house work or escaping (under the pretence of picking herbs from the garden). And as they get older the Big Boy can, fingers crossed, play nicely with him, teach him things and read to him.

There is no doubt that my energy and patience have been spread thinner with the introduction of a second child, my body is further worn and the opportunities for time to myself, or even couple time, are fewer. There is more noise, more mess and bigger bills. But there are two little and not so little boys growing up together, who, despite the inevitable and necessary battles, biffos and bruises that await, will be buddies – there to share things and experiences with each other and to trade secrets when it comes to hiding stuff from mum and dad. One day they might be Uncles, helping to raise and nurture each other’s kids. Uncles, hey? Oh, the mischief, the glorious mischief that lies ahead for these siblings…

Comment on this post

There are a lot of them in our backyard, thanks to the four clucking ladies who deposit an unbelievable amount each day. They hover and buzz and lay their stinky little feet on my bare skin as I’m hanging out the washing. But it’s not the blowies I’m referring to. My Big Boy is flying the pre-school coop this week, off to the land of primary school.

I haven’t reflected much on this rather important step in our lives, just gone about the practicalities that come with the transition – buying blue shorts, roll-on sunscreen and a lunch box, and placing personalised Sponge Bob labels on some.  He has shown nothing but excitement as we’ve counted the number of sleeps to Day1. Me?

A few thoughts:

• oh my God, am I really old enough to have a school-aged child? (the same ‘oh my god’ feeling I had when we took him home from hospital - the feeling that perhaps someone ought to assess my capacity to take on such a responsibility)
• thank god (another year at home would’ve driven us all around a very sharp bend)
• thank god (perhaps the teachers will sort out his annoying habits, like putting everything in his mouth, acting like he knows it all, wiping poo on walls and a defiance that is really hard to crack – that’s their job, right, to correct all of our parental errors and turn our children into educated angels?)
• oh my god, do I have to do homework and know things like long division?
• oh my god, am I obliged to do tuck shop duty and bake cakes for the fete?
• oh my god, I’m really going to have to make sure we’re not running out the door, screaming at each other five minutes before the bell goes (and breaking into a sweat as I attempt to reach his classroom before he’s whisked to the principal’s office for minding, along with other kids whose parents are obviously disorganised and don’t care enough to greet their little petal on time)

So, to my Big Boy of school age, fly fly. Go forth with confidence, enthusiasm and resilience and I will do my best to go forth with timeliness, patience, basic numeracy and literacy skills and plenty of hugs.

Comment on this post

Is she serious? Whose is it? How did it get there?

Yes. The Big Boy’s. Allow me to explain.

We’ve grown accustomed to being called upon to converse, answer a question or get another roll of toilet paper when the Big boy settles in to his saga of a bowel emptying session. He gets a little bored, wants to know that we haven’t packed up and deserted the family home whilst he’s been straining and he uses a hell of a lot of toilet paper (despite many a lecture about trees, oxygen and life). So when he calls out from down the corridor we simply sigh, roll our eyes and nudge each other until someone gives in and trudges towards the loo. We anticipate a story about a certain imaginary dragon who seems to have become one of the family. Perhaps a fleeting thought about cucumbers or a recollection of something or someone that has floated into his wandering mind. What we don’t expect is this:

‘Mum,’ holding his index finger in front of his face, ‘I’ve got poo on my finger.’ Indeed he does.
‘Eww! How did that get there?’
‘When I wiped my bottom.’
‘Didn’t you use toilet paper?’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘Well wipe it off! Don’t just sit there waving poo in my face! Use some toilet paper and get it off!’…..’Then wash you hands really well with lots of soap!’

End of story. Except the next day, my husband comes into the lounge with this:

‘There’s poo on the wall.’
‘What?’ Glaring at the Big Boy.’When you got poo on your finger yesterday, did you wipe it on the wall?’
You can see the indecision in his eyes as he tries to work out whether he’ll suffer more from an honest, disgusting answer, or a little lie. ‘Just tell me the truth. Did you wipe poo on the wall or not?’
He can’t bring himself to respond verbally, so he nods his head silently and I remind myself to cut his finger nails.

The best part of this story is that it takes another two days for the poo to get cleaned off the wall.

Comment on this post

If I were a car, I would be a 2006…ummm… something. I not sure what make or model I’d be, but I’d probably fall into the medium sized category. I’m not small and meek, but I hate to think that I’m a Landrover who parents by being big, authoritative, scary and loud. I’d be racing car red that has faded to a slightly darker, less impressive hue. And I’d certainly be manual, because that’s the way I work. I like to think that I practice conscious, mindful parenting.
It’s also impossible to crunch the gear box in an automatic, and I’m a top rate parenting cruncher, complete with cringing and an instant sweat breakout as I look around to see if anyone notices my noisy, embarrassing  parental blunders.

If I were a car I’d run purely on gas (as a by-product of wheat), which, while being fairly cheap, would mean that I might lack power at times, struggling up the steep hills. The head gasket would need careful attention as I’d be prone to over-heating, especially on family holidays (more of that another time) and we all know that a blown head gasket can be costly, for all. My indicators would be a little unreliable, rendering other road users frustrated at having to guess which direction I’m going in, and stunned as I make sudden u-turns.

If I were a car my mirrors would always sparkle, affording a clear reflection to help guide decision making, but also allowing a guilty view of the grimy back windscreen. My tyres would require regular rotation as I wear through the rubber with poor control over the brakes, at times attempting to accelerate and brake simultaneously.

If I were a car my performance would rely on regular tuning and oil changes, and even some dormant periods in a dark garage, to rest and ensure longevity.

Oh, and I like to think that I’d be that first car that, whilst being a little dorky, is reliable and able to provide many a sweet memory.

Comment on this post