Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

If you’re lucky to have family or friends close enough and willing to take on a crazed child for even a few hours, or a ‘job’ that requires you to have a head screwed on and clean clothes, you will have periods of absence from your children. If you’re lucky enough.

For me, time away from the Big Boy is a necessity, not a luxury (though it is luxurious). A day, or a few hours of preschooler-free air to breathe does wonders for topping up my little pocket of sanity. But does it make my heart grow fonder? No. In fact those glimpses into life as I knew it can work in reverse. I remember life without Lego impalements and rolled ankles. Life without the noise of an electronic, interactive keyboard. Life without the incessant noise of a voice produced at excessive decibels and the most irritating pitch possible. Life without whining, whinging and forced howling (actually, I should probably say ‘life with a little less‘… someone else may contribute to that whining…not saying who). Ahhhh…

But there are things that have the potential to make my heart grow fonder (read: ‘My heart is already brimming with fondness for my kids – any more and I’d explode with love!’ or just plain Cold Heartedness… interpret as you will). One such thing is spending time with other people’s kids.

Obviously it depends who those kids are; you have to pick carefully you see, or the reverse can happen and you can end up with a nasty case of Child Envy. Sweet, gentle little girls with bows in their hair, soft pitter patter feet, angelic voices and fluid movements – whilst gorgeous and calming to have around – only serve to highlight my Big Ball of Relentless Energy’s lack of such qualities. But if you pick the kids correctly, fondness for your own may follow. I recommend sourcing kids who either look feral or act feral (your child care centre should have some in stock, as should the local play centre… or is that just my local play centre?)

There’s nothing like a good, healthy dose of comparison to make you feel a little more fond of your own, and a little more capable as a parent. If all goes to plan, you can walk away with a goody bag full of comparisons that highlight your own child’s good bits. Bits that generally need a pick axe to access.

So, does absence make my heart grow fonder? No, but it does help to keep insanity at bay.

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I have so many…where to begin?

Firstly, let me say this. STOP!! Before reading on, you must promise me something. You must promise that you will share with me too – give and take.

Since becoming a parent more than 4 years ago I have a big old leather suitcase stuffed full of dirty little secrets. Time to begin unpacking them to ease the load and make you feel better about your own suitcase of truths. I will reveal them gradually to you, so as to lesson the risk of losing readers to the shock of what my suitcase contains. Here goes:

1. I made a gruesome  discovery the other day. I had been wondering for nearly three months why my now gaping, shapeless excuse for a belly button had become darker and more rough to touch. Strange, I had thought. Just one of the side effects of pregnancy I guess. I’ll add that to the list. But no, it wasn’t. I decided to scrub at it a little the other day…and the darkness (which on closer inspection was a dirty grey) began to disappear and the skin to feel smoother. Turns out I had been breeding months of lint. Fascination was quickly replaced with disgust, and then back to fascination. I’ve never had the stuff before and now I could’ve done with a chisel to remove it! Note to self: the cave needs a good clean out at least once a week.

2. I have been known to tell Big Boy that I will put him in the recycling bin (yes my son, the one with the blue lid) if he doesn’t behave, in the hope that they’ll give me a well-behaved boy in return. He throws his head back and laughs, telling me I’m crazy. What he doesn’t know is that I’m not entirely joking. If it wasn’t for some bad publicity that a woman in Britain received recently for putting a cat in a garbage bin, well…who knows?

Okay enough from me. Your turn. Please make me feel a little less dirty by emptying one of your little secrets into the comments box below, no matter how big or small… you never know, it may even feel good!

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Could I be that parent?

My Big Boy enters the realm of Big Schooldom next year (cue massive sigh of relief from somewhere…surely not me?) and orientation sessions have begun. I should start by saying that my husband and I are the salmon of the ‘when to send your children to school’ river- our boy will be starting school at the fragile but boistrous age of four. I mention that to excuse him from any bad behavior or failure to thrive at big school. It’s always useful to have excuses for your children at the ready – eases the guilt somewhat. Anyway, last week I psyched the both of us up for a 45 minute P.E lesson with Rosie. I had admirable, anxious-parent-of-a-new-school-kid plans to get there in plenty of time so that we could both be calm, collected and definitely not the last to walk into the big, open gymnasium. But, as life seems to roll at present, we screeched to a halt outside the school fence with two minutes to spare and no time for a briefing. We raced through the gates, hand in hand as I explained that this was the warm up exercise, in order not to panic him. After making me proud by spelling his name to the young teacher at the table, he was labelled and hussled into the middle of the gym to find a place on the yellow line among 20 or so other kinder kids. I found my perch along the side wall next to a woman with a new baby nestled peacefully in a sling, and a boy of about two standing like a little angel beside her (I instantly felt like a  major wimp, having left my  little one at home with his daddy in case he dare cried while we were out!).

Now I’m already aware of my potential to become that mum, courtesy of swimming lessons. I have only been a few times to witness my Big Boy splashing about, but each time I have nearly boiled over with frustration and the effort of preventing myself from lurching forward to unleash a torrent of discipline and advice about technique (having been a little pro swimmer myself, I know all there is to know about teaching 4 year olds how to swim). I have had to look away at times to suck in deep, deep breaths and to remind myself that:

1. there is a teacher in the pool with him, who is qualified to teach swimming (though I haven’t seen her certificate…)
2. I am not in charge – she is (a control freak’s worst nightmare)
3. they are only kids (another excuse)
4. it’s okay to have a bit of fun while learning (but not too much, cos we pay money for this!)
5. everyone will stare, point  and label me as that parent if I keep jumping out of my plastic seat to stand on the edge of the pool glaring and threatening

So, I knew what I was up against when I entered the gym with my excitable 4 year old. Things started out okay while activities were simple and instructions basic. But when the friendly Rosie (or Mrs Lumsdon for the those kids) upped the ante and had them multi-tasking with more skill than my boy has, things started to unravel for him, and then  me. He began to look around him, trying to figure out what to do with his hands and feet and blue beanbag, but decided pretty quickly that it would be a hell of a lot easier to just go nuts, jumping about, throwing the beanbag and laughing at himself.

My pulse began to race – the struggle to control my urges was on, BIG time. I initially used the power of my mind and any eye contact we made to send him messages of encouragement. You can do it. Keep trying love. Then, Stop mucking around! You’re not even trying! That didn’t work, so I started on Rosie. Can’t you see the boy is struggling? Shouldn’t you be helping him or something? For gods sake, HELP THE BOY!

Still nothing. My Big Boy continued to be that kid and I attempted to stifle any evidence of being that parent (I wonder how many other mums were aware of my constant fiddling with the coat buckle, shifting feet and clenched teeth?). Thank god the class ended when it did, because my heart was either going to shatter on behalf of my son and his lack of skill or explode with the galloping thump thumping of a parent who is on the verge of losing it. Mrs Lumsdon’s class could well have been the unravelling of both of us – a reputation established months and months before we even start at the school. I must be on high alert, stay focused and avoid watching my son participate in anything!

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