Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

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?

Comment on this post

On June 1^st we became a family of four. ‘Three boys and one girl,’ my eldest son states proudly. I remind him that we have three female bantams in the backyard, because they count, don’t they?

Having a newborn again, and all the demands that that places on energy, patience, perseverance and ultimately sanity, has not really been of concern to me, despite finding the early days with our first son more than challenging. This time I basically know what to expect – broken sleep, squirty nappies, leaking rocks for breasts, screaming (predominantly from the child) and lots of washing. Nothing rocket-sciencey , just monotonous, messy and exhausting.

What has thrown me is the challenge of having enough for two children and a husband– enough patience, enough energy, enough love – and the guilt associated with failing to be everything to everyone, despite knowing that this is simply impossible and not to be attempted by anyone. You see, the capacity to engage the rational, realistic part of the brain does not even go close to outweighing the impact of what is really at the core of parenting – guilt – in all its cruel irrationality and power.

I am engaging in the activities and conversations of my two big boys as much as I can between feeding, settling and resting. My efforts exist, but they are not enthusiastic and sometimes not even sincere.  I snap and grizzle, demanding less noise and better listening. The guilt nibbles at my toes incessantly like a school of small but determined tropical fish in waters of Malaysia. My husband, who has become cleaner, cook and entertainer extraordinaire, has been lumped with a bossy, bitchy wife and my son now has a largely absent mum (no improvement from the incapacitated one he has put up with for the last 9 months) who rears her disciplining head too often.

And then there’s the guilt associated with feeling nothing but love towards the helpless, beautiful newborn who seems to be doing all the right things. I know I’m sleep deprived and hormonal and I’ve been told by many that it takes time for everyone to adjust to the introduction of a new family member. It makes sense in the rational part of my brain, but where’s the magic wand that makes it easier here and now?

Comment on this post