Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

Is she serious? Whose is it? How did it get there?

Yes. The Big Boy’s. Allow me to explain.

We’ve grown accustomed to being called upon to converse, answer a question or get another roll of toilet paper when the Big boy settles in to his saga of a bowel emptying session. He gets a little bored, wants to know that we haven’t packed up and deserted the family home whilst he’s been straining and he uses a hell of a lot of toilet paper (despite many a lecture about trees, oxygen and life). So when he calls out from down the corridor we simply sigh, roll our eyes and nudge each other until someone gives in and trudges towards the loo. We anticipate a story about a certain imaginary dragon who seems to have become one of the family. Perhaps a fleeting thought about cucumbers or a recollection of something or someone that has floated into his wandering mind. What we don’t expect is this:

‘Mum,’ holding his index finger in front of his face, ‘I’ve got poo on my finger.’ Indeed he does.
‘Eww! How did that get there?’
‘When I wiped my bottom.’
‘Didn’t you use toilet paper?’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘Well wipe it off! Don’t just sit there waving poo in my face! Use some toilet paper and get it off!’…..’Then wash you hands really well with lots of soap!’

End of story. Except the next day, my husband comes into the lounge with this:

‘There’s poo on the wall.’
‘What?’ Glaring at the Big Boy.’When you got poo on your finger yesterday, did you wipe it on the wall?’
You can see the indecision in his eyes as he tries to work out whether he’ll suffer more from an honest, disgusting answer, or a little lie. ‘Just tell me the truth. Did you wipe poo on the wall or not?’
He can’t bring himself to respond verbally, so he nods his head silently and I remind myself to cut his finger nails.

The best part of this story is that it takes another two days for the poo to get cleaned off the wall.

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If I were a car, I would be a 2006…ummm… something. I not sure what make or model I’d be, but I’d probably fall into the medium sized category. I’m not small and meek, but I hate to think that I’m a Landrover who parents by being big, authoritative, scary and loud. I’d be racing car red that has faded to a slightly darker, less impressive hue. And I’d certainly be manual, because that’s the way I work. I like to think that I practice conscious, mindful parenting.
It’s also impossible to crunch the gear box in an automatic, and I’m a top rate parenting cruncher, complete with cringing and an instant sweat breakout as I look around to see if anyone notices my noisy, embarrassing  parental blunders.

If I were a car I’d run purely on gas (as a by-product of wheat), which, while being fairly cheap, would mean that I might lack power at times, struggling up the steep hills. The head gasket would need careful attention as I’d be prone to over-heating, especially on family holidays (more of that another time) and we all know that a blown head gasket can be costly, for all. My indicators would be a little unreliable, rendering other road users frustrated at having to guess which direction I’m going in, and stunned as I make sudden u-turns.

If I were a car my mirrors would always sparkle, affording a clear reflection to help guide decision making, but also allowing a guilty view of the grimy back windscreen. My tyres would require regular rotation as I wear through the rubber with poor control over the brakes, at times attempting to accelerate and brake simultaneously.

If I were a car my performance would rely on regular tuning and oil changes, and even some dormant periods in a dark garage, to rest and ensure longevity.

Oh, and I like to think that I’d be that first car that, whilst being a little dorky, is reliable and able to provide many a sweet memory.

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When it comes to being a parent, respect is a rather important issue. But what is respect and how do you get it?

I, perhaps naively, assumed that my role as a parent would be enough to ensure that my kids treated me with respect. You know, treat me just that little bit better than a cheeky chook in the backyard or a sticky tape dispenser that just won’t release the tape. I thought that my position meant that I didn’t have to earn respect, because I was simply entitled to it. Wrong.

This sounds strange, even to me, for I was raised to respect my parents and other adults…wasn’t I? But here I dig, and discover that there is a difference between respecting and submissing; being respected and being in control.

Controlling your kids makes life a hell of a lot easier and less embarrassing. Other parents may compliment you on your well behaved, polite children, making you beam with pride. It feels good. But whilst achieving a sociably acceptable outcome feels good, does quieting your young one with threats of punishment, with evil glares or pinches on bare arms or legs achieve respect? Does this child respect his parents or fear consequences?

My latest challenge with the Big Boy and his ‘lack of respect’ for me (as demonstrated by a blatant disregard for polite requests to PLEASE STOP COPYING WHAT I’M SAYING!!!) is really playing on my discomfort with being disrespected. Or is it the control freak in me, screaming out for the reigns? Does authority and control breed respect? I think not.

So whilst it is easy to get tougher, more demanding, threatening and punishing, it may in fact not have the desired outcome…in the long run. Respect is not borne out of fear and submission, nor is it a given. Respect is borne out of modelling the desired behaviours and attitudes; rewarding and encouraging; being honest and listening carefully; being genuine, loving, patient and respectful.

If I have one wish as a parent, it is not to have children who are obedient or ‘successful’, but to have children who respect me. And so I continue to work on earning it.

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He is big and old (with the exception of a particular Santa at a particular Kinder party recently who was thin and youthful), dressed in a weird suit, has a suspicious looking beard and carries a red sack over his shoulder. The kids resist, clutch on to the out-stretched arms of mum or dad, whimper and even scream. And fair enough –  that man may well be stuffing innocent children into that sack of his! Go on, we encourage, camera poised. Must get that photo for the grandparents.

It goes against everything we will tell our kids about strangers, especially men offering gifts and cuddles. But we push them forward each year, so that they can have their annual photo with the big guy. We chuckle at the screamers, applaud the children who make it to the feet of the jolly fella, and cheer when a smile breaks out or physical contact is made without meltdown. WHAT?

The Big Boy has never really taken fondly to St Nick, but now sees him as a source of toys, the giver of gifts, the one who asks for nothing in return. So this year he went with no cajoling towards this man and snatched the bubbles right out of his hand.  He told us that this was the real Santa, as opposed to the one of TV who is simply a person dressed up as Santa. No panic attacks and no screaming.

Only a few months ago we’d had a wee chat about talking to people he doesn’t know, when he took it upon himself to go out into the front yard and talk to a walker with a dog (as opposed to going to the garage and getting in the car as he’d been instructed to do). Without wanting to squash his sociable, chatty tendency, we spoke about making sure that mum or dad is with him if he decides to wander and converse with an unknown quantity. We didn’t want to harp on about dodgy men with lollies and backseats, because instilling fear seems a little wrong.

So why is Santa any different? Should we be including a clause (excuse the clever pun) in our Stranger Danger talks about red suits, bells, sacks and ho-ho-ho’ing? Should we explain that when it comes to Christmas time, parents are inconsistent and please don’t dwell on this one too much? And then there’s the small issue of a strange man coming into their bedroom when they’re asleep…

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Does the arrival of a newborn mean the end of life as you knew it? Should it?

“Welcome to the Great Debate! On the affirmative team, debating that the arrival of a newborn should mean the end of life as you knew it, is New Beginnings. On the negative team, debating that the arrival of a newborn should not mean the end of life as you knew it, is Clutching On. Opening the debate is the affirmative.”

New Beginnings:
“You chose (either intentionally, or by a lack of diligence or thought) to have a baby. You made a decision to bring another life into the world. It is, therefore, your DUTY to care for and nurture this person. Your DUTY. Anything other than complete devotion and dedication is negligence. From the moment of conception, you can choose to harm your baby and jeopardise her future (for example, by drinking black tea or nibbling on soft cheese during pregnancy; by leaving her to cry in her early days; by having her jabbed with toxins; by saying no to any request; by getting angry at impossible behaviour), or do the right thing and always put her needs first in the most gentle of ways. ALWAYS.”

Clutching On:
“You cannot be serious? Are you really saying that a new mum should forsake her own needs and desires for her baby? That anyone should completely surrender themselves to any other person? We don’t do it when we marry, do we? (or do we?) And at what point does this duty, this dedication stop? Are we expected to pander to our children until we hit the grave with a thud, unrecognisable as the person who once existed before parenthood? Why not just jump into the nearest vacant plot now?”

New Beginnings:
“A little melodramatic, don’t you think? Nurturing another human is the most rewarding task of all. Watching her grow and develop; fostering the most sacred and lasting bond of all. Letting her know that you are there, always, to comfort and support her. To cuddle her when she’s sad and nurse her back to health when illness strikes. Allowing her to see that you would do anything for her. Is that so hard?”

Clutching On:
“Allow me to clarify the topic. We’re talking about ‘the end of life as we knew it’, yes? Right, well, let’s stick to that shall we, and stop using Guilt to distract us from the debate. I’m not saying that it isn’t a parent’s job to love, nurture, educate and nurse her child. I am not saying that it’s okay to wittingly cause harm to your child, in the womb or in the arms. But I am saying that life does not need to end for the parent. It is well known that a child needs many things in order to thrive both physically and emotionally. One of the most significant factors is the wellbeing of his parents. Parents need to respond to their own needs, nurture their own emotions in order to make themselves available to nurturing someone else. It could be a cup of black tea, a row of Cadbury chocolate, a hit of tennis, dinner out with friends or returning to work. Life as we know it does not and should not end when a baby arrives.”

New Beginnings:
“Selfish. When a baby arrives, she is your life. Tennis? Work? You’re happy to leave your baby for such trivial pursuits? They are more important than your own child? If you’re a real parent, with real feelings and a proper sense of responsibility, you don’t need or even yearn for more than that. Life as you know it does and should end when the most precious gift of all arrives.”

Clutching On:
“Well start digging that plot. Or should I say, you mind the child and get someone else to dig it for you? Guilt abounds and drowns us parents, even when we do attempt to do our best for our children. Unrealistic and outdated expectations only set us up for failure and a close encounter with the ailing mental health system. Go get a spade and leave me to go for a run (child looked after by another loving adult) on the green grass above you.”

At this point, both parties are required to shake hands and congratulate each other on doing the best they can (it’s in The Club‘s Code of Conduct).

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