Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

Now the curtain is coming up, the entertainer is taking a bow. Does his dance step and sings a song….or something like that. My Big Boy is The Entertainer.

Sounds impressive, yes? Amusing? Perhaps even useful? Possibly, but the majority of the time it does my head in.
Reason 1: I am paranoid about the baby getting squished by his big brother, accidentally or not*. My son seems to have developed two left feet and lost his center of gravity over the last 6 months, leaving him susceptible to tripping, stumbling and crashing upon any attempt at functional movement. Add singing and ‘dancing’ (I fear he may have inherited his father’s awkward style) and the result is generally bruising and breakages. Now throw in a baby on the floor. Not good for my mental health.

Reason 2: I have developed my mother’s sensitivity to noise (acutally, it’s more of an intolerance, perhaps even an aversion).  Not great when you’re a mother to two young boys, so I may need to jam that into the Must Work On drawer of my Personality Traits filing cabinet. With entertainment comes lots of noise (because, along with the thumping of his Big Boy feet, his singing leaves a lot to be desired). So for musically trained ears and hypercritical and hypersensitive tendencies, it’s all just a bit much.

But despite the damage I incur to the delicate thread of sanity I have stowed away, the baby LOVES IT! He smiles with his entire face until his cheeks consume his eyes. He chuckles and coos, oblivious to the danger that crashes around him. While I’m gripping onto my trackie pants, white-knuckled, stifling screams of panic and over-stimulation, he follows his brother’s every move and provides my Big Boy with all the encouragement he needs to continue entertaining. So, for the sake of the greater good, The Entertainer will carry on performing, much to the delight of his biggest fan, a defenseless but happy little brother.

*To heighten my paranoia and take me back to square one in my attempt to overcome the beast, my Big Boy did attempt to squash the baby recently, but let’s talk about that another time, when I am seeing a lighter shade of red.

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I could write about my fascination with the bathroom mirror, or, more accurately, the reflection that peers back at me – a stripy, glistening stomach and a pair of breasts that don’t even look related (while both zigzagged with blue veins, one will often sit lower and jiggle more than its firmer, more upright counterpart, depending on the feeding status). But what I am referring to is reflecting on my Big Boy’s baby stage.

People refer to hindsight as being ‘great’. Truth be told, I think it’s rather irritating. There are times when I would rather have a complete lack of insight, because what I seem to learn from hindsight frustrates me and there’s nothing I can do about it, bar time travel, and I can’t afford that.

Hindsight has delivered two main learnings, as I have reflected on my Big Boy’s babyhood:

1. A mummy does know her body and her baby better than anyone else, and if we were allowed to just get on the with the job, we would probably do it better! I nearly punched a midwife when she came to check how breastfeeding was going with child number two. ‘Yeah, we’re doing well, thanks,’ I had reported proudly. At this point I expected her to smile sweetly, congratulate me and float quietly from the room with her clipboard. Not so. Having never laid eyes on me or Baby before this encounter, she suggested that I try a different feeding technique, just because ‘that’s how you’re meant to do it’. Serious? I just said that we were doing fine, NOW LEAVE US ALONE!

2. No bomb is going to explode if you attempt to put baby to breast before the recommended two and a half hours is up. If the baby is hungry, feed it – it may well have a big appetite (as my Big Boy does, and obviously did). All those times I panicked and clumsily squished him into the pram’s cocoon to pacify him with a bolt around the block because it had only been two hours since his last feed, he was probably thinking, ‘Is this woman crazy? All I want is a god damned drink!’

3. If your baby happens to fall asleep while you’re cuddling him, you’re not setting him up for complete dependence on cuddles for achieving sleep for the rest of his life. Enjoy those baby cuddles because Big Boys prefer to simply jump on you.

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I may have alluded to the fact that I am a MAJOR CONTROL FREAK. I want to re-visit that in the context of parenting.

Being a Control Freak is exhausting. You must keep tabs on everything, constantly analysing, pre-empting and taking charge. Things must go according to a plan (preferably one of your own). No, really, they must, because any hint of straying from what Must Be leads to utter chaos and meltdown. And it’s not just in your own life that you have this massive responsibility of ensuring that the plan is implemented without hitch – you are bound by the rules of Control Freaks United to ensure that everyone and everything else conforms. Phew!

Now enter the baby – a bundle of squawks that has spent roughly the last nine months in a dark sac of warm water, floating without concern for rules and plans. This is a Control Freak’s worst nightmare – no predictability, no plan, just needs that must be met. This little human is a non-conformist, determined to do her own thing, on her own watch (and the watch has no numbers….). FEED ME NOW! CHANGE ME! CUDDLE ME – NO, NOT LIKE THAT! GET MY GAS UP! Etcetera. Oh, and DON’T YOU DARE DISTURB ME WHEN I’M SLEEPING!

Being organised is great. Having a strategy is great as well. But trying to control a newborn is not such a great idea, trust me. There is no black and white (I have learnt to pity those who experience a more severe form of my condition, which manifests in a firm belief that black and white exists, that there are reasons for all newborn or child behaviour and basic solutions to all acts of straying from the plan or breaking the rules. For them, life must be unbearable). There is no recipe, no exact formula, just a whole lot of grey.

Day to day life now becomes the hardest thing you have ever tried to control. No matter how structured and timetabled you intend it to be, there are always curveballs – a massive, sticky poo filling a nappy or a chunky vomit all over your new outfit just before you step out the door. Pick up the phone to make a call or peel off your clothes to step into the shower and the baby will start screaming for your attention. Dare to meet up with a friend for a coffee and your little angel will have her longest nap on record, right through the allotted caffeine time.

Of course the other target for Control Freaks is our partners/husbands. This is a time when you’re both treading water hard, desperately trying not to sink. The last thing he needs is someone to hover over him, monitoring, correcting and taking over when things aren’t done to your specifications. Like vulnerable new mums, dads need time to find their feet, adjust to their role and build up their confidence. Ignore the inside-out singlet. Let him find his own way of holding the baby (it’s true that a baby’s head/neck needs to be managed carefully, but seriously, it won’t fall off!). Have a laugh, rather than a bitch, about the mis-match of an outfit he’s clothed your little one in. The biggest lesson for members of Control Freaks United is to learn to better control our own way of thinking, acting and re-acting  (I am still attending classes regularly…am yet to pass the subject).

Being a member of Control Freaks United can make parenting just that little bit more challenging, but I have done my best to use the transition into parenthood as an opportunity to tame this personality trait of mine. It will always be a part of me, I’m afraid, but adding two kids to the partnership equation has certainly forced me to loosen the reigns and forgo any solid plans to shower.

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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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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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