Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

So is a kid, except you don’t get your pick of the litter. Yours could be the yappy jumpy one, the cute fluffy one, the small one with an eye for mischief, or the runt of the litter (not that you’d ever speak that aloud).

We recently welcomed the newest member of our extended family into the world. He is gorgeous and squeaks like a little bird. Only a week old, he sleeps, feeds and squirts. He is oh so cuddly and has major potential to wreak havoc on women who are prone to the clucks.

Mother nature cannot be trusted. She has ulterior motives – namely, to expand the population. She brings these adorable little people into the world, complete with something (yet to be discovered) that sends pulses of motherly urges into unsuspecting minds. Before we know it, we are growing feathers and pecking at bugs. Memories of sickly or immobile pregnancies - wiped. Vivid recollections of labour and birth – majorly suppressed (to suggest that this could be erased would be a lie). The teary fog of sleeplessness – forgotten. The challenges of toddlerhood – tucked away in an awkward little corner of your mind.

If you’re not on guard, these impulses of the clucks can grab hold and turn into temporary insanity, during which you begin to seriously consider donating your body, your mind, emotions and hip pocket to another being. True stuff.

The thing is, these little cuddly squeakers grow, change and become real people with needs and impulses of their own. Unlike dogs they cannot be motivated or rewarded with cardboard-like snacks, locked up, kept on a leash or micro-chipped. They won’t be obedient just because you are their master, and they can’t be de-sexed. Kids can’t be booked into the Kennels when the travel bug bites, and the consequences of poor training are a little more significant than torn cushions and puddles on the carpet.

A dog is for life and so is a kid. So to all those ladies of child bearing age, BE ON GUARD (and consider getting a dog). Mother nature is after you.

Oh, and for those who may be wondering if the clucks have got me yet? NO CHANCE! I purchased an all-weather, cluck-resistant suit of armor that has a lifetime guarantee.

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I soooo wish I could tell you that I was checking in to a health/fitness/beauty/relaxation/strictly women-only retreat for a few days. Sadly, no – the baby won’t take a bottle. Checking in to a fancy hotel? No. Checking in to rehab? I said no, no, no.

Pregnant women gets piles… of attention. Interested parties asking after her health, the baby’s growth, ideas for names. The bulge is like a beacon for attention, and with that often comes support. The woman continues to get some attention when the baby is first born, until the novelty of a new baby and mum wears off. Then the phone calls slow down, visitors dry up and casseroles cease to appear miraculously on the door mat.

Problem is, after those first couple of months the novelty of it all may have worn off for the woman too. Days at home with a gorgeous, unpredictable, sweet-smelling, pooing, spewing, crying baby can be long…really long. Lonely too… and boring. All too soon the reality of the transition into new parenthood sets in. And who’s there to check in on her? Please note: I am absolutely not forgetting the men, who never even get the attention and support to start with.

First time around I was the master of deception, of brave-facedness. I had a talent for smiling and laughing at the right time, of talking only about happy things and saving the tears and truth until Neighbours (or something of a similarly high caliber and emotive storyline) was on. Those closest to me knew what was going on for me, because keeping up appearances was too exhausting to maintain with everyone (and you figure that your family has seen you at your worst already…namely, in your somewhat emotional, horrid teens). But most people remained oblivious to my struggle.

Why? People don’t ask. People don’t delve. Perhaps people are more comfortable with the simple supermarket exchange. Or maybe they don’t  even consider that this mum is not finding her new gig as exciting and glossy as is often falsely portrayed. So, what I ask of you is this: if you know a new mum, or even one who has been at it for a while (let’s face it, the gig doesn’t get any easier) think about checking in with her.

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People have often said, to my great, swelling pride, that my Big Boy will be a ‘heart breaker’ when he gets older. What can I say? He’s got my genes. Trouble is, the ‘heart breaker’ thing has begun already…

Yes, the girls at child care love him, but I don’t think he’s broken any hearts there yet – they seem quite happy to share the four year old love and craziness. It’s my heart he’s breaking, and not because of his big brown eyes, cheeky nature or strange kisses. It’s because I’m not only his mummy now. I have another boy who demands a lot of my time, attention and affection (oh, and there’s the baby too). I have been well and truly shoved to the outer since his baby brother arrived.

Everyone tells me it’s ‘normal’ and it probably is. Still, when your Big Boy brings home a drawing of his family, complete with him, dad and the baby…hang on, complete? Ah, there’s the small omission of your mother, son. Or when he tells me to stay home while he goes to the park with dad, because it’s my job to look after the baby and the house (note: he has always known me as a working mummy). Or when he delights in telling me that him and daddy are going to have blue plates for dinner and I’m going to have a brown plate. Or when he wants dad to tell him ‘all those things’ (our little bedtime routine thing of talking about what we’ve done that day), every night. And the most recent, another drawing. At least I was in this one. Everyone else was drawn in pink pencil and I was drawn in grey. His explanation? ‘You got burnt in the fire mum’.

I’m trying not to break down in tears anymore, or let myself completely lose the plot in anger and frustration. I compliment him on his wonderful drawings and state indifference to the different coloured plate. With the help of a brilliant, calm husband, a baby who smiles at me no matter what and a newly acquired family nurse, I will ride the heart break and look forward to the day when it’s another girl’s heart he’s shattering.

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I try to limit my black tea consumption out of guilt, based on some warning that I heard or read somewhere about something to do with breastfeeding and babies. Probably in a list of the Top 1000 things to avoid when pregnant, breastfeeding or caring about your wellbeing. So when I have one, it’s because I really, truely need one (frayed nerves and exhaustion are two of the more common criteria).

Thing is, I rarely get to drink the deliciously dark, sweet guilt – I mean tea. Before even getting to the point of putting mug to lips, the kettle may boil half a dozen times. I either get distracted (life really is a series of distractions) or hear the little man call out from his cot as soon as  the ‘click’ of boiled water sounds. So, if I get to the point of adding hot water and a smallish (okay, generous) teaspoon of sugar (it’s raw…does that make it better?) to a mug with an Earl Grey teabag dangling innocently inside, it’s a miracle.

If the Gods are on my side I get to pick up the cup, sniff, blow and then sip. If the God’s are on my side. Generally that cup of saving grace remains on the kitchen bench getting stronger and colder until it’s beyond redemption. Life just interferes. I used to sigh and tip the cold, golden-brown liquid down the drain. Now, I do one of two things:

1. I pick it up, sniff, blow (not sure why…habit I guess, and distraction) and sip. But that’s as far as the guilty affair goes. Indulgence doesn’t taste as good when it’s been left to sit too long.
2. Avoid cold black tea by:

• leaving another task half-finished and sipping serenely
• letting the baby cry and gulping/choking the hot tea down
• drinking scolding hot tea while precariously clutching onto the rescued baby with the other hand, supported somewhat by a hip and held over the cushy rug (in case I drop the mug…or the baby).

The problem with these scenarios is that guilt and Earl Grey don’t mix too well.

It seems that cold black tea acts as a metaphor for life with kids – guilty intentions to indulge in a feel-good activity, interrupted; attempts to complete a task from start to finish, severed; plans, hopes, dreams left to sit on the bench, going cold (okay, a little exaggerated, but it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to). Perhaps I should stick to eating too much chocolate (that’s also in the Top 1000 list).

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Ooo. Does she dare write a post on the potentially divisive topic of childhood immunisations? (I specify ‘childhood’, because a brief conversation with my neighbour revealed that there need not be consistency across patient groups – choosing to immunise her dog is okay, but she wouldn’t do It to her hypothetical kids…).

The Baby had his second round of jabs last week, so I guess that tells you what our stance on the subject matter is. It’s not nice really – hold him still while two nurses, one on either side, arm themselves with nasty looking needles and on the count of three plunge them into his chubby thighs. Pause. Silence. Drop of blood. SCREAM (his, not mine. I manage to keep it together…just). A feed soon comforts him for a little while, but he remains ‘precious’ (read: clingy, needy, whingy) for the rest of the day, and the day after that, and the day after that too.

So, why on earth would I put my son and myself through such trauma? Isn’t it just cruel and unnecessary? If someone was interrogating me across a small wooden table with steel legs and a two way mirror behind me, harassing me to justify putting my children through such experiences, I would pull a crisp white piece of paper, neatly folded in four, out of my pocket (because that’s the beauty of being a Control Freak…). It would read like this:

1. you shouldn’t discipline your kids, in case they get upset and that makes you feel bad
2. you shouldn’t deny your kids anything,  in case they get upset and that makes you feel bad
3. you shouldn’t give your child his antibiotics because he hates having to take it, and that makes you feel bad
4. show me the evidence (proper research, statistics and all) that I am causing harm to my child beyond short term discomfort and angst, and the evidence that the jab and its contents is more harmful to him than the disease itself (the interrogator will most likely look blank, shuffle his paperwork, shift in his chair, clear his throat and then excuse himself from the room, muttering something about a smart arse)
5. I was immunised as a child and there is nothing wrong with me (aside from the occasional brain fade…but don’t say that bit aloud)

You probably get my drift:

• short term pain, long term gain
• it’s not about me and my mother guilt, it’s about him and his future health
• prevention, not cure (a brief session of Google Imaging the other day, in an attempt to identify my Big Boy’s rash revealed hideous, painful looking photos of children with various preventable diseases… it just didn’t seem right or fair).

So, when December 2nd rolls around, we’ll be lining up again with a laminated number in a church hall, awaiting another round of jabs and an almighty scream at the conclusion of it. Tough love.

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