Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

Now, let’s not pretend that we have never thought it, even if only fleetingly. If you try to tell me that it’s never crossed your mind, I simply won’t believe you. The thing is, the Post Office won’t accept a live package, and the practicalities of returning your baby from whence it came…well…hmm. I’ll leave that thought with you. But what about men?

Recent discussions about baby-proofing our future have caused me to reflect on and rant about the lack of physical contribution that the male body makes when it comes to reproductive matters (despite the rather essential  tadpole offering that facilitates baby-making). It’s not their fault, but someone has to be held accountable.

We (women, that is – I am assuming that the majority of you are female) assume at least part of, sometimes sole, responsibility for contraception, before we succumb to ‘instincts’ (or insanity). We ride the waves of nausea, dizziness and erractic eating during pregnancy. We lug a bowling ball on our front (and around our sides if the ball is female….kidding) and then pass this ball through our most delicate orifice in the most primal and undignifying way. We donate our breasts to milk production, inflamed and infected ducts, stretching and then drooping. And then we start back at artificial hormones.

The men? The only transformation that their bodies undergo around the years of reproduction is the loss of some strands of hair, the greying of others and a little more spread around the gut. So, can we return to sender? Or do we just need to accept that women have been chosen for these roles because we are simply braver, stronger and, well, more superior?

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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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There are some words and phrases that should never have to appear on anyone’s blog, in the one post. Here are some of them:

• anal
• probe
• rotating
• balloon
• electric shocks
• gloved, lubricated fingers of a stranger

I should say that the main reason for the above was my aforementioned flatal incontinence. Now, there’s dignity!

There can’t be a worse job in the world than that of a…actually, I’m not entirely sure what his title was…but someone who sticks objects and fingers in the back passage of others. There can be nothing enjoyable or rewarding about that, for either party. But that was his job and, unfortunately, I was the subject, I mean patient, beamed up for an examination, some probing and NO memory erasing! The least they could have done was to knock me out!

My preparation for this ‘experience’ was both good and bad. The anxiety around having someone poke things in that area on a background of constipation was enough to convince my lazy digestive system to fire on all cylinders this morning. Phew. But my psychological preparation left a little to be desired. I was kindly invited into the room before I had even had a chance to sit down in the waiting area, and to feed my baby (I had planned it all perfectly…arrive early, feed the baby and then leave him with his daddy, happy and satisfied..they were running early and my plan vanished, leaving me with full breasts and my husband with a hungry baby). To be honest, I’m not sure how one would mentally prepare for such an experience…

The ins and outs of it, I shall spare you (the list above should give you some idea of what went on, and leave you begging for a mind eraser). Plus, I may be punished by the little green men if I give away the secrets of my alien encounter. Let’s just add a list of thoughts and feelings, in chronological order:

• awkward
• embarrassed
• uncomfortable
• are you serious?
• surely not…
• oh, for god’s sake!
• quick, find a happy place!
• wrong, so wrong
• please let me go now
• resignation
• realisation
• violated
• upset
• embarrassed
• awkward

Birthing has been described as empowering, beautiful, miraculous. But the post-birth consequences? Oh, the indignities.

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This post comes with a warning for people with any of the following conditions: pregnancy or those considering it, a weak stomach, nightmares or insomnia or ‘prim and proper’-ness.

This is a two-part post, based on two recent events in my undignified post-birth existence. Two-part because there’s just so much to cram in and I didn’t think it fair to condense the content so heavily that you miss out on the details… upon reading, you may disagree, and scrub your eyeballs so hard that your vision goes all scratchy. But it’ll be too late. The words will have imprinted in your brain. Hence the warning.

But with parenting comes such topics and issues, and so, in writing as honestly as I can, it would be remiss of me to exclude them. We’re all here for truths, yes? And perhaps a little entertainment along the way. So here goes (navigate away from this page NOW if you meet any of the above criteria).

Okay, a little game that involves some imagination. Below is a list of words and phrases. Your job is to ‘Name That Scenario’ !!

• gloves
• blue paper towel
• swab
• cold gel
• speculum
• cervix

Pretty straight forward, yes? Now let’s add few more phrases to cement the scenario for you and really drive home the indignity:

• stress incontinence (urinary)
• ‘have a little cough’
• flatal incontinence (gas that won’t stay in…)
• ‘open your legs and relax’
• fermented apple

All true, I’m afraid.  There can be no good outcome when the above words and phrases are combined in a pokey office with poor ventilation, bar a grate in the door for dignity to escape through. It turns out that giving birth – sharing your privates in a not so private way with people who hardly know you – is not the end of it. And it seems that being in your twenties is no ticket out of the sufferance of indignities that you may believe you’re entitled to with your youthful body. No, no, no…

Enough said for now. More in Part 2. Sweet dreams.

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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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