Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

You know that level of fatigue that leads to a day of oopsies? Like completely loosing spatial awareness and inadvertently sending things flying off the bench? Like not realising that the failure to place a lid on a bottle will mean that when you do drop it, the contents will cover the floor? Like managing to trip over everything that even threatens to be in your path (and then crash landing on top of your Big Boy’s newly made Lego helicopter with the Baby in your arms)?

And you know that depth of fatigue that convinces you to forget about the state of the house and rest while the Baby does? And the luck of the day that means that the Baby wakes a painful 10 minutes after you have raised those aching feet off the ground and rested that throbbing head on the pillow?

And the all consuming fatigue that nearly causes you to fall asleep during dinner, even though it is scrumptious and you have the appetite of a horse?

Sympathy cards most welcome.

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My Big Boy used to groan with boredom when the ad breaks appeared, asking how many minutes until his show came back on. Then he started to pay attention to ads with a catchy tune or beat, or even just something repetitive - AAMI’s ‘What about me?’ ad and ‘O O O…O’Brien!’ could (and still do) cause him to put a pause on Lego building or crazy thrashing around the lounge room. Insurance is innocent enough, and not highly relevant at this stage, so no real concern there. But lately things have shifted again as my spongey preschooler is drawn into the evil world of advertising.

I have always been proud of the fact that my Big Boy has a pretty healthy diet. He doesn’t drink, or even like, anything other than milk or water. Offer him a ‘fizzy drink’ or cordial and he screws up his face. Manage to get some past his lips and he spits it out in disgust. In his four and a half years he has only ever had the Golden Arches on two occasions, and even then, he thinks it’s a cafe called ‘Old MacDonalds’ (we don’t tell him the name, for fear of an addiction). Nup, he’s a boy of simple taste who has largely remained oblivious to the evils of fast food. But lately?

“Ooo, I love this ad. Mum, can we make one of them tonight?”
It’s the Hungry Jacks ad featuring a brekkie wrap – a hideous looking thing with rubbery egg, bacon and a patty professing to be meat. Also showing during this 20 seconds of evil is a cappuccino, complete with chocolate dusting.
“What is it that you like about it?”
“I just like it. It looks yummy.”
“But what about it looks yummy?”
“The chocolate sprinkles.”
“So you don’t like the look of the food?”
“Yeah, that looks yummy too. Can we make it?”

I silently curse Hungry Jacks and their advertising people. They got him on the chocolate dusting and made him think that he wants a breakfast wrap! I also curse KFC and their chicken burger, to which Big Boy responded with the same request about making ‘one of those’… BUT, I shouldn’t complain too much, because he isn’t asking to ‘go there’, just to ‘make one’.  So we made a delicious, healthy chicken burger last week and he loved it. Ha! Evil advertisers of evil fast food, I think I’m still on top of you. But I do sense that we’re turning a corner and any day soon he will be asking to have, make, consume, borrow or visit anything that appears on TV. I guess that’s when the TV gets thrown out, along with all catalogues. Sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?

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So genetics versus environment. We all know it’s a combination to the two, the ratios of which depend on where your guilt lies. You see, it’s entirely your fault if you blame genetics, but at least there was nothing you could do about. Whereas environment, well, you can blame other factors outside of yourself, but you potentially have more control over them than your genes…with me?

So, when it comes to my kids, here is what I know I can blame on my genetics:

1. eczema – as we smother the wriggly, nudey rudey, obsessed with his bottom and penis Big Boy in moisturiser morning and night, my poor husband groans and curses my genetics… sorry to say, darling husband of clear skin, that the Baby has patches of dodgy skin now too!
2. a pasty complexion (the Baby) – once again, apologies to my olive-skinned, tolerant-of-the-sun husband who laughs at my paranoid slip, slop slapping
3. a touch of the ginger – whilst the Big Boy seems to have his daddy’s colouring, it appears that the Baby may have inherited a little strawberry-blond from my side. I’m not sounding like the best choice in mating partners, am I?

Things I can perhaps blame on my genetics:

1. Big Boy’s ‘cheeky monkey’ syndrome (though my husband has to accept some responsibility for this one)

Things I wish I could claim as my genetics:

1. Big Boy’s spatial skills

Things the Big Boy didn’t seem to get from my Good genetic pile:

1. athleticism – at the 70m mark on the aths track next door, his shoulders slump, feet drag and his face pales…and don’t get me started on his poor performance in body building classes
2. musicality – tuneless tunes are his love…at least he has imagination and creativity when it comes to making up his own melodies and lyrics…in fact, we may well train him up to audition for X Factor!
3. determination – at present, he prefers to try and never try again…ever! Or to not even bother attempting. Having said that, he’s certainly very determined when it comes to being heard and getting his own way.

Things I can well and truly blame on the environment:

1. his slightly pommy accent (cheers to a year in the Motherland)
2. his love of the Simpsons and Super Mario Galaxy (though some would argue that the passion was so great that genetics – not mine – simply must be involved)

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No, not the hippie girl from down the street or the daughter of a celebrity. Patience, as in ‘patience is a virtue’. Gulp. No virtue here I’m afraid.

My Big Boy likes to bake. More accurately, he likes to stand on a chair at the kitchen bench and eat anything that doesn’t quite make it into the bowl – flour, butter, sugar, egg…ewww. Nonetheless, it’s something that we do together when I need comfort food and feel like I should engage him in an activity that may help to repair our jagged relationship. It may be a sweet bribe of sorts, but let’s call it ‘gentle persuasion to love mummy again’. Induces less guilt that way.

So, at the kitchen bench we stand. I summon Patience to be by my side because I know what’s coming when we don our aprons and collect ingredients: mess, chaos, distraction, groaning, whinging, breakages and spillages. I hover over him, wide-eyed, breathing rapidly and muttering to myself about ‘why am I putting myself through this again (apart from the obvious teeth-rotting, cholesterol-rising treat at the end of it)? I clench my teeth, bite my tongue and let out little noises of  agony.

I engage in self-talk, urging Patience to persist and convincing my facial muscles to work together to produce what might pass for a smile of sorts (the outcome is probably an expression more akin to constipation). Don’t jump down his throat every time his snotty, grotty fingers dip into the mix – he doesn’t really care about keeping his germs to himself, and no one’s going to die of a little baked booger. Don’t use your angry voice when he claims to be too tired to stir, but is jumping up and down on the chair like a monkey. And whatever you do, don’t cry over that spilt milk! I remind myself about the benefits of baking together – developing new skills, learning about food, fostering a loving relationship. The effort of it all nearly causes me to explode.

And that’s just the baking. He offered to do the dishes last week. Patience only made a brief appearance, vanishing when he insisted that I hand over the wine glasses.

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I try to limit my black tea consumption out of guilt, based on some warning that I heard or read somewhere about something to do with breastfeeding and babies. Probably in a list of the Top 1000 things to avoid when pregnant, breastfeeding or caring about your wellbeing. So when I have one, it’s because I really, truely need one (frayed nerves and exhaustion are two of the more common criteria).

Thing is, I rarely get to drink the deliciously dark, sweet guilt – I mean tea. Before even getting to the point of putting mug to lips, the kettle may boil half a dozen times. I either get distracted (life really is a series of distractions) or hear the little man call out from his cot as soon as  the ‘click’ of boiled water sounds. So, if I get to the point of adding hot water and a smallish (okay, generous) teaspoon of sugar (it’s raw…does that make it better?) to a mug with an Earl Grey teabag dangling innocently inside, it’s a miracle.

If the Gods are on my side I get to pick up the cup, sniff, blow and then sip. If the God’s are on my side. Generally that cup of saving grace remains on the kitchen bench getting stronger and colder until it’s beyond redemption. Life just interferes. I used to sigh and tip the cold, golden-brown liquid down the drain. Now, I do one of two things:

1. I pick it up, sniff, blow (not sure why…habit I guess, and distraction) and sip. But that’s as far as the guilty affair goes. Indulgence doesn’t taste as good when it’s been left to sit too long.
2. Avoid cold black tea by:

• leaving another task half-finished and sipping serenely
• letting the baby cry and gulping/choking the hot tea down
• drinking scolding hot tea while precariously clutching onto the rescued baby with the other hand, supported somewhat by a hip and held over the cushy rug (in case I drop the mug…or the baby).

The problem with these scenarios is that guilt and Earl Grey don’t mix too well.

It seems that cold black tea acts as a metaphor for life with kids – guilty intentions to indulge in a feel-good activity, interrupted; attempts to complete a task from start to finish, severed; plans, hopes, dreams left to sit on the bench, going cold (okay, a little exaggerated, but it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to). Perhaps I should stick to eating too much chocolate (that’s also in the Top 1000 list).

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