Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

This post could be about a number of big picture issues, like marriage, moving in together or having a baby. I don’t have a blanket ‘fools rush in’ philosophy, because if I did I’d be in trouble. I’m talking about attending to a crying baby.

There is debate, bickering and major disagreements when it comes to the topic of whether to leave a baby crying or not. It’s kind of the politics topic of parenting – best not to bring it up over a peaceful dinner with newly acquired mummy or daddy friends, unless you never really wanted to be friends with them in first place. It’s a touchy one, with ‘evidence’ to support either side of the argument (I say ‘evidence’, because every viewpoint conducts their own ‘research’ to ‘support’ their ‘theory’).

One thing I’m proud of in regard to our first attempt at parenting (yes Big Boy, it turns out you’re a guinea pig) is that we did what we thought best when it came to this issue. Not best for us or best for him or best for the neighbor. Not best according to any particular book, ‘expert’, friend or family member.  Just ‘best’ (we considered all viewpoints and eenee meenee mynee moed our way to a decision…just kidding). Our approach was based on a number of factors:

1. how much crying could we, as parents, tolerate before we either curled up in a ball inside the bath or threw something really hard at a really hard surface to ‘break’ the tension (polar reactions, I’m aware, but both very possible)?
2. if we were to pick the baby up as soon as he began to cry, how much jiggling, swaying, pacing and patting could we tolerate before either of the above scenarios occurred (bath or breakage) or our backs and arms died? (note: there was still no guarantee that any of the aforementioned methods would result in a cessation of crying)
3. how much guilt could we tolerate if we left the baby to cry, all alone in that big cot, in that big lonely room at the end of that long, long corridor?
4. how important was it that the baby learn to self settle in order to reach the goal of sleeping for long, long stretches overnight?
5. what was likely to win us the most fans – leaving the baby to cry, or picking it up every time it did? (actually, this didn’t rate as a priority, but imagine if it did?)

In the end, we kind of (we are no experts, surprisingly) learned to read the situation, despite the lack of a manual – impressed? If he sounded like he was just having a whinge, too bad. If he sounded really sad, maybe. If he sounded agonisingly desperate, yes. If he toned it down as we were walking towards his room, no. Basically, if we thought he didn’t have a need that required immediate attention, or we thought he was b*sh*ing us, too bad (there is nothing worse than responding immediately to a cry/whimper/complaint only to discover that your rushing in has in fact actually woken the baby and he now won’t go back to sleep by himself). Also too bad if we had reached the end of our short tether or our backs had given way.

Our Big boy turned out to be a brilliant, heavy sleeper, not waking during the night from a staggering 7 weeks of age. So when this baby arrived, we took the same approach and I’m glad to say we have another sleeper-through. So, that’s my ‘evidence’ to support my ‘theory’ that in this household, fools rush in.

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Yesterday was a day of frustration, anger, disappointment, guilt and hurt…so, not drastically different from any other day, but perhaps magnified. BUT, I’m going to try to keep this post as light and fluffy as possible, because depressing diaries are soooo teens. (Note: There is no guarantee that I won’t indulge in some misery and self pity)

The challenge was recognised when the baby was safe behind my belly button, not yet latched onto my breast or demanding most of my attention – the challenge of introducing a new family member to the threesome that had existed quite happily for more than 4 years. Yesterday’s major confrontation and meltdown was probably a culmination of many things – a nasty virus, fatigue, a parent-free few days with grandparents and… a baby.

It started out quite simply, as always, with unanswered requests and cheekiness. Enough of that got him some Naughty Step time. After many long minutes of serious wrestling, retrieving a plastic step (the Naughty Step), rescuing curtains that were on the brink of being pulled down, dodging hits, kicks, scratches and evil stares (yes, our Big Boy could well be that kid you see on grainy home videos on the ‘Kids Out of Control’ special on Today Tonight), we had this simple exchange.

Him: ‘I hate being on the Naughty Step!’
Me: ‘You chose not to listen. You chose to be cheeky and that’s why you ended up on the step. It’s not my fault and it’s not Dad’s fault.’
Him: ‘It’s not my fault.’
Me: ‘Well whose fault is it?’
Him: ‘It’s Oliver’s.’ (the baby)

And cue….guilt. Guts ripped out. Heart torn to shreads. Head swirling. Hot, stinging tears welling. The anger vanished as I crumbled inside. How could those two little words hurt so much? Did he mean it? Have I really ruined his life and our relationship forever, or is he looking for a scape goat? This is a child psychologist’s dream interaction, I thought. Let’s see where it goes with a little probing. So, holding back my flood from gushing forth, I inquired:

‘What makes you say that it’s Oliver’s fault?’

I held my breath in anticipation of more gutting revelations. Nothing, but a shrug of the shoulders. End of the line. Just as well no one’s paying me to be a child psychologist. From here I forced myself to keep him company during the morning tea that I had finished long ago and then accompany him to the lounge room for a spot of ‘let’s move on now and try to be friends again’ Uno, during which the flood gates opened in an almighty release of too many emotions. For the one who gave birth to him, fed him, nurtured him and showed him the world… ouch. Now where’s Dr Phil?

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Today I’m joining Kate at Picklebums in writing about perfect imperfection, though I’m afraid that I can’t even perfect imperfection.

It seems to me, in a life riddled with imperfections, that a perfect day is all about mind set. Actually, to be truthful, I was going to say that it all depends on how well the baby sleeps (because that completely shapes and colours the day, a ‘good’ day being circular and tranquil lavender, and a ‘bad’ day being octagonal and deep grey). But that only works to further alert you to my Control Freakitis status, so let’s talk about mind set.

Perfect imperfection is accepting that the day will be chaotic, exhausting, trying and exhausting again before it even begins. It’s then about putting on the rosy glasses and swallowing a hefty dose of calming potion (whatever works for you). Then, as the day goes from bad to worse it’s about finding a happy place somewhere far from reality.

Parenting is full of imperfections, mild blemishes and major acne outbreaks. Thankfully, there are smooth, clear and even beautiful patches in between to comfort us somewhat and prevent the camera lens from cracking.

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I would just die if anyone found out that this post was inspired by some Dr Phil viewing, so I won’t tell you. So, yeah, I was watching some show recently and they were discussing the issue of working mums versus stay at home mums. It got me doing some more reflecting and this is the result.

I assumed that, after working full time for what felt like too many years (but was really not many at all!) I was more than ready for any excuse to stay at home. What I didn’t anticipate was the struggle that I would face in doing so. Expectations of leisurely days, a darling baby and domestic bliss were shattered by about week 12, when I had my first evil thought about returning to work. Evil, because: 1. it wasn’t in the plan to return to work until at least 9 months (and plans are EVERYTHING to a control freak) 2. I had made a conscious decision to become a mum, so I was not only obliged to stay home with the thing, but supposed to find it the most rewarding and enjoyable time of my life, yeah? Oops.

The novelty of having a baby, becoming a mum and not having to go to ‘work’ had begun to wear off. I began to lose motivation, confidence and brain cells. I needed (not just wanted – that’s an important distinction) to exercise my mind, have adult conversations, have an excuse to get out of trackies and put some makeup on. Like many sibling relationships, I needed space to create opportunity for our relationship to flourish. I needed to know that the pre-baby me still existed in there somewhere – the one who could speak well to groups of people, make others smile, help people in need of help, be acknowledged for a job well done and earn my keep.

When my Big Boy was 6 months old I returned to work one day a week, wracked by feelings of guilt and failure. I had failed to survive life at home with a baby and failed to experience the bliss of new mummyhood. I felt incredibly guilty about returning to work so soon and leaving my baby in the care of someone else, but I knew that I just couldn’t be the loving, caring, present mother that I wanted to be if I continued to stay at home ‘full time’ with my baby.

What that one day a week did for me was to begin to restore my sense of self and give me a greater appreciation of my family – quality time, not quantity (and for the record, that’s still how I function best, especially with a crazy 4 year old). Second time around I have been much wiser, looking out for myself and responding to my needs, because I know the consequences of ignoring those needs, for my mental health and the health of our relationships at home. I know that I am the best mummy when I am happy and satisfied and if that means having someone else mind my kids for me sometimes, then that’s just how it is.

So, stay at home or return to work? I’m not a huge fan of giving advice to expectant or new parents, but if I was to dish some out, it would be this: Honour who you are. Be truthful to yourself despite what you think you should be doing or feeling because you are the one who has to live with your choices. The consequences of being guided by expectations (whether they are yours or those of others) are not worth it.

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One Born Every Minute had me hooked. I’m a sucker for re-living the pain and horror and power of birthing. In fact, the temptation is there to get pregnant again just so I can boost my ego one more time with the pride that comes from successfully birthing a baby.

Anyhoo. Watching the second last episode, which followed the stories of two babies who needed intensive care, had me holding my breath,  feeling depressed and counting my lucky stars. How absolutely unbelievable is it that my babies were born with no assistance and with no major health problems? How unbelievable is it that conception occurs in the first place and that a foetus develops inside a uterus?

For all the complaining that I have done and will continue to do about my little ones, I still marvel at their existence. 10 fingers (though their fingernails are often way too long and black with dirt..and possibly poo), 10 toes, eyes (that choose not to see their own mess or obstacles in their path), ears (that hear only the words ‘eat’ and ‘playground’ and ‘Uno’) and hearts that tick.

When the going gets tough and I want to get going (on that train away from parenting and to a serene place that doesn’t exist) it helps to be reminded of just how lucky I am.

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