Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

We make decisions and then dig around for justifications to support them. To prove to others that we have chosen well? Perhaps. To cover ourselves in the case of a potentially dodgy decision? That’s more like it. We can justify any decision, no matter how ludicrous the justification, and go about our day feeling lighter, less responsible for repercussions. Everything is alright.

So how do we justify a decision to bear children?

I recall a discussion with my brother a couple of years ago, when we were in the decision-making phase of child number two, and wrestling justifications for either side of the to-have or not-to-have argument. He didn’t agree with some of my rationale, nor I with his…so who was right? Clearly, I was. I always am. I cited reasons such as having a sibling for child number one and wanting to see if I could cope better with those early days second time around.  Admittedly, the former justification weighed a little more heavily and probably sits more comfortably with most, but the latter is also truth.

And so I got to wondering about what justifications for having kids other people provide, either stated overtly or swimming silently through their minds. Is it a basic obligation to prop-up the population? An egotistical desire to see our genes laid before us? A desperate attempt to be needed, dependent upon and loved unconditionally? A mere excuse to escape paid employment for a period of time? A misguided decision to get enlarged breasts on the cheap or receive money from the government?

Parenting is full of dodgy decisions and even more appalling justifications. But the eased guilt or remedied indecision is justification enough. Right?

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

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.

Comment on this post

You know that level of fatigue that leads to a day of oopsies? Like completely loosing spatial awareness and inadvertently sending things flying off the bench? Like not realising that the failure to place a lid on a bottle will mean that when you do drop it, the contents will cover the floor? Like managing to trip over everything that even threatens to be in your path (and then crash landing on top of your Big Boy’s newly made Lego helicopter with the Baby in your arms)?

And you know that depth of fatigue that convinces you to forget about the state of the house and rest while the Baby does? And the luck of the day that means that the Baby wakes a painful 10 minutes after you have raised those aching feet off the ground and rested that throbbing head on the pillow?

And the all consuming fatigue that nearly causes you to fall asleep during dinner, even though it is scrumptious and you have the appetite of a horse?

Sympathy cards most welcome.

Comment on this post