Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

Now, let’s not pretend that we have never thought it, even if only fleetingly. If you try to tell me that it’s never crossed your mind, I simply won’t believe you. The thing is, the Post Office won’t accept a live package, and the practicalities of returning your baby from whence it came…well…hmm. I’ll leave that thought with you. But what about men?

Recent discussions about baby-proofing our future have caused me to reflect on and rant about the lack of physical contribution that the male body makes when it comes to reproductive matters (despite the rather essential  tadpole offering that facilitates baby-making). It’s not their fault, but someone has to be held accountable.

We (women, that is – I am assuming that the majority of you are female) assume at least part of, sometimes sole, responsibility for contraception, before we succumb to ‘instincts’ (or insanity). We ride the waves of nausea, dizziness and erractic eating during pregnancy. We lug a bowling ball on our front (and around our sides if the ball is female….kidding) and then pass this ball through our most delicate orifice in the most primal and undignifying way. We donate our breasts to milk production, inflamed and infected ducts, stretching and then drooping. And then we start back at artificial hormones.

The men? The only transformation that their bodies undergo around the years of reproduction is the loss of some strands of hair, the greying of others and a little more spread around the gut. So, can we return to sender? Or do we just need to accept that women have been chosen for these roles because we are simply braver, stronger and, well, more superior?

Comment on this post

So is a kid, except you don’t get your pick of the litter. Yours could be the yappy jumpy one, the cute fluffy one, the small one with an eye for mischief, or the runt of the litter (not that you’d ever speak that aloud).

We recently welcomed the newest member of our extended family into the world. He is gorgeous and squeaks like a little bird. Only a week old, he sleeps, feeds and squirts. He is oh so cuddly and has major potential to wreak havoc on women who are prone to the clucks.

Mother nature cannot be trusted. She has ulterior motives – namely, to expand the population. She brings these adorable little people into the world, complete with something (yet to be discovered) that sends pulses of motherly urges into unsuspecting minds. Before we know it, we are growing feathers and pecking at bugs. Memories of sickly or immobile pregnancies - wiped. Vivid recollections of labour and birth – majorly suppressed (to suggest that this could be erased would be a lie). The teary fog of sleeplessness – forgotten. The challenges of toddlerhood – tucked away in an awkward little corner of your mind.

If you’re not on guard, these impulses of the clucks can grab hold and turn into temporary insanity, during which you begin to seriously consider donating your body, your mind, emotions and hip pocket to another being. True stuff.

The thing is, these little cuddly squeakers grow, change and become real people with needs and impulses of their own. Unlike dogs they cannot be motivated or rewarded with cardboard-like snacks, locked up, kept on a leash or micro-chipped. They won’t be obedient just because you are their master, and they can’t be de-sexed. Kids can’t be booked into the Kennels when the travel bug bites, and the consequences of poor training are a little more significant than torn cushions and puddles on the carpet.

A dog is for life and so is a kid. So to all those ladies of child bearing age, BE ON GUARD (and consider getting a dog). Mother nature is after you.

Oh, and for those who may be wondering if the clucks have got me yet? NO CHANCE! I purchased an all-weather, cluck-resistant suit of armor that has a lifetime guarantee.

Comment on this post

There’s plenty to whinge about when it comes to life with a newborn, but there are some benefits associated with this chaotic, exhausting time.

Larger breasts and cleavage have been a novelty for me. Unfortunately I know from experience that not only will these full, life-giving organs shrink when breastfeeding ceases, but I will be rendered even less womanly than I was before pregnancy! Perhaps the World Health Organisation is onto something when it suggests breastfeeding for two years…

Wearing trackies and Ugg boots is another benefit, as is showering in the second half of the day. Any excuse to wear my comfy clothes is warmly welcomed, but when does the newborn-in-the-house concession expire? When will I be expected to dress up a bit more, perhaps upgrading to jeans and slip-ons? Maybe the time has already passed and I’m just oblivious to the disapproving vibes from my more decently clad family and friends. And what about the shower thing? When will I have to be showered and shampooed before lunch, even in the absence of a morning appointment or outing?

I see other mums at the shops and can’t help but note their appearance, generally in stark contrast to my loose, elastic, sensible clothing. I wonder if they have been planted there by a higher power to make a point…something along the lines of ,’There ain’t no excuse woman!”. These mothers have shiny hair and wear eyeshadow,  jewelery and heels. They are showered, probably wearing perfume and looking calm. God damn them, making me look bad. Don’t they know about the unspoken concessions of trackies and Uggs? If they do, then the only possible explanation is that they have 24 hour nannies, in house stylists and predictable, perfect babies. God damn them!

Comment on this post