Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

I may have alluded to the fact that I am a MAJOR CONTROL FREAK. I want to re-visit that in the context of parenting.

Being a Control Freak is exhausting. You must keep tabs on everything, constantly analysing, pre-empting and taking charge. Things must go according to a plan (preferably one of your own). No, really, they must, because any hint of straying from what Must Be leads to utter chaos and meltdown. And it’s not just in your own life that you have this massive responsibility of ensuring that the plan is implemented without hitch – you are bound by the rules of Control Freaks United to ensure that everyone and everything else conforms. Phew!

Now enter the baby – a bundle of squawks that has spent roughly the last nine months in a dark sac of warm water, floating without concern for rules and plans. This is a Control Freak’s worst nightmare – no predictability, no plan, just needs that must be met. This little human is a non-conformist, determined to do her own thing, on her own watch (and the watch has no numbers….). FEED ME NOW! CHANGE ME! CUDDLE ME – NO, NOT LIKE THAT! GET MY GAS UP! Etcetera. Oh, and DON’T YOU DARE DISTURB ME WHEN I’M SLEEPING!

Being organised is great. Having a strategy is great as well. But trying to control a newborn is not such a great idea, trust me. There is no black and white (I have learnt to pity those who experience a more severe form of my condition, which manifests in a firm belief that black and white exists, that there are reasons for all newborn or child behaviour and basic solutions to all acts of straying from the plan or breaking the rules. For them, life must be unbearable). There is no recipe, no exact formula, just a whole lot of grey.

Day to day life now becomes the hardest thing you have ever tried to control. No matter how structured and timetabled you intend it to be, there are always curveballs – a massive, sticky poo filling a nappy or a chunky vomit all over your new outfit just before you step out the door. Pick up the phone to make a call or peel off your clothes to step into the shower and the baby will start screaming for your attention. Dare to meet up with a friend for a coffee and your little angel will have her longest nap on record, right through the allotted caffeine time.

Of course the other target for Control Freaks is our partners/husbands. This is a time when you’re both treading water hard, desperately trying not to sink. The last thing he needs is someone to hover over him, monitoring, correcting and taking over when things aren’t done to your specifications. Like vulnerable new mums, dads need time to find their feet, adjust to their role and build up their confidence. Ignore the inside-out singlet. Let him find his own way of holding the baby (it’s true that a baby’s head/neck needs to be managed carefully, but seriously, it won’t fall off!). Have a laugh, rather than a bitch, about the mis-match of an outfit he’s clothed your little one in. The biggest lesson for members of Control Freaks United is to learn to better control our own way of thinking, acting and re-acting  (I am still attending classes regularly…am yet to pass the subject).

Being a member of Control Freaks United can make parenting just that little bit more challenging, but I have done my best to use the transition into parenthood as an opportunity to tame this personality trait of mine. It will always be a part of me, I’m afraid, but adding two kids to the partnership equation has certainly forced me to loosen the reigns and forgo any solid plans to shower.

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Why is it that everyone else knows more about my children than me? Did I miss an important lecture or tutorial at which all knowledge about them and solutions for their problems, was imparted? Did I nod off at the wrong time or make the mistake of turning this valuable information into white noise?

Mia Freedman referred to it recently as ‘backseat parenting’ – when others generously impart their parenting wisdom on you, ready or not. Everyone seems to have an opinion – another parent, a non-parent (I like to refer to them as The Sane Ones), family, friend, stranger… There are experts everywhere! Aren’t we, the parents of the child who is up for analysis, so fortunate to be surrounded by such a wealth of knowledge and experience?

I don’t want to sound ungrateful – as a parent, support from others is crucial to survival. I often seek an opinion or some advice when it comes to working out my kids – my foggy, indecisive and often anxious mind doesn’t always permit the clearest of thoughts or rational problem solving. Plus, talking to someone else about an issue, whether it be a defiant preschooler or a windy baby, gives me an excuse to debrief  (otherwise known as whinging), and that, in all seriousness, is just as necessary to my sanity as getting practical help.

The thing is, some advice is sought and some is dished up, complete with feeding assistance (the spoon invariably overloaded and then reloaded as soon as it touches our lips). Some is offered out of a genuine desire to help and some is served with an icy cold side dish of know-it-all-ism. You know the people I’m talking about – they know everything about everything and believe that it is their duty to enlighten and educate the rest of us poor souls.

Parenting is trial and error, no matter what anyone says, published or otherwise. It can turn the most confident, capable and organised individual into a self-doubting, second guessing and balding shadow of a being, especially for those of us who are members of Control Freaks United. We absurdly assume that being parents, by nature of the fact that we have children, is qualification enough to know exactly what to do with our children and this ludicrous belief renders us highly vulnerable to the crushing effects of backseat parenting (with the exception of the Know It Alls).

So am I the least informed when it comes to my kids? Whilst my vulnerable inner child calls ‘maybe….’ in a pathetic whisper, I will stubbornly answer ‘NO!’, so that the backseat parents among us don’t succeed in wriggling their way into the Ford Focus drivers seat to send me tumbling down a slippery, prickly embankment.

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Do such people exist? People who claim to know what a baby is communicating, wanting and needing in the absence of speech and language? Certainly some profess to have such a skill, even write books that detail how to ‘read’ a baby. Well, I have discovered a whisperer much closer to home…in fact, in my home.

This baby whisperer hasn’t written any books…he cannot yet read books. He is four years old and attends kinder. He is good at puzzles and eating and he appears to know what my baby is communicating. Yes, my preschool son is a baby whisperer.

I didn’t notice at first, probably because my son has a talent for non-stop chatter and not all of it makes sense. As a consequence, my ears have adapted to perform the task of turning this incessant string of syllables into white noise, to reduce the risk of brain meltdown. Hence, I am not always aware of what he is trying to tell me.

‘I think he wants more milk mum.’

Initially I reacted as any breastfeeding-around-the-clock mother would to the suggestion that the baby wants more. ‘NO HE DOESN’T!’ An over reaction, perhaps. ‘He can’t want more, I only fed him an hour ago. Why does that have to be the answer every time he cries?!’

‘I think he’s tired mum.’

‘But he hasn’t yawned yet.’

‘He’s got a pain in his tummy mum.’

‘But I’ve burped him already.’

The cheek! My four year old telling me what the baby wants and needs! I am the mother of the baby and therefore I instinctively know what to do with it, don’t I? What does he think he’s playing at?

I ignored his suggestions to start with – my pride insisted so. But desperation gradually lowered my guard and I began to listen to him. He says he’s hungry? Fine, I’ll offer him my breast. He has a pain? Alright, I’ll do some more patting and rubbing. And on nearly every occasion my preschooler has been right, his suggestions resulting in a happier baby and more peaceful house.

How does he know? How does he do it? Is it luck? Guess work? Are my boys able to communicate in a way that is not available to me? Whatever the explanation, I’m pretty impressed and stoked. I briefly considered contacting Today Tonight, or maybe even A Current Affair to share my baby whispering child with the world, but decided against it. After all, I don’t want him to know that he is a better mummy to his brother than I am. My pride wouldn’t cope.

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Don’t cringe…this one isn’t about me.

It’s a precious commodity with many important functions: keeping lounge rooms warm, boiling water on the stove…  If it wasn’t for gas I’d be cold, hungry and certainly not soaking in the bath. The problem with gas is when it’s stored in a baby’s system and has trouble escaping. It gets trapped, not knowing whether to head north with some milk, or south with some mustard. It lingers midway, causing all sorts of pain for its host and his parents.

We sit him up straight (trying to keep his head from rolling off) and throw him over the shoulder, patting, rubbing, willing the gas to move. We lie him on his back and row the boat and cycle with his legs. We lie him on his tummy hoping to squish the gas forward or backward. We pace and brace our nerves, calling on any morsels of patience that could be tucked away or stored deep within. And this is during the day.

At night I plead with the gas, begging it to make a hasty exit so that my sanity doesn’t. When minutes pass with no burp or pop, I get a little impatient. ‘It’s cold and this isn’t funny. I’m giving you two more minutes to make yourself scarce and then I’m going back to bed!’ I can almost hear the gas bubbles laughing as they bounce around my baby’s insides…I think I may have to work on my negotiation skills.

In searching for answers to our gassy problem (because all parenting challenges have definitive solutions, don’t they? Just ask any of those books…) my husband managed to offer a reason that was sensible, possible and cruel. ‘Your milk comes out too fast. He’s choking on it.’ ‘And what am I supposed to do about that? He’s lucky that he’s got so much milk!’ Now, without wanting to offend any males who may be reading, I do believe that my husband’s solution could only have come from a man. ‘You need a valve.’ We’re currently googling it and if our search reveals no such item for fast flowing feeders like myself, then we may have found our new business venture. Stay tuned.

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He knows…somehow. Don’t ask me how, I can’t explain. All I know is that he knows. Spooky….

My baby boy is onto me. Whenever I have hopes for an highly indulgent activity such as a nap during the day or a hot, lavender infused bath in the evening, his peaceful sleep time fails to eventuate. He may go down without much fuss, and even appear to be sleeping soundly, but inevitably it ends abruptly. Or he fusses, groans and cries on and off and sleep never gets established. Can he read my mind? Does he think me unworthy of a little relaxation?

Today was marked as a day to make sure I had a nap, having failed to do so over the last few days and finding that the fatigue was getting on top of me. I lay him down in his cot and went about filling in some forms until I knew he was asleep. Problem was, he kept making noises…for about 45 minutes. When eventually I decided that the coast was clear for nap time (I swear he was sleeping!) I peeled back my doona, curled up into a ball, closed my eyes and, no more than 30 seconds later, he started crying and didn’t stop. Cruel, just plain cruel.

So, instead of getting some much needed feet up, eyes closed, brain shut down time I power-walked (perhaps ‘power’ is a little over-stated) around the block with a grizzly baby. Hmmm, maybe that was his little plan all along, to give me some fresh air and exercise. Maybe his sixth sense isn’t so evil. Still, a nap would’ve been nice.

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