Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

He sucks and sucks and sucks. Oh, hang on, you might not know who I’m referring to. There are, after all, three males in the house. It’s not the Baby (no, he has been convinced to give up the nipple addiction..sort of..though his lunge towards the drooping left one in the bath tonight suggests that he still has some way to go in therapy). It’s not my husband either. That leaves the School Boy.

Anything will do – cords on clothes, buttons on clothes, toys, the TV remote. He’s not even aware that he’s doing it. So why does he do it? I know that our rabbit used to lick our skin in order to get extra salt. I know that babies suck for comfort, and probably out of boredom too. Has he decided that his little brother was on to something and there is great joy to be had by having a suck? Is he parched? Does he enjoy the tingle and sting of the eczema that surrounds his mouth as a result?

To my great relief, I’ve seen other kids in his class do it too – the cords on school hoodies and hats seem to be popular for a suck. But that doesn’t make it any less bizarre or disgusting. The handles of his library bag are drenched and stinky. The cord on his big blue hat is disintegrating. And his mouth resembles that of a clown’s (let’s hope that school photos fall on a day of less sucking activity).

Why? I don’t know, he doesn’t know. Let’s add it to the mounting pile of ‘Why does my child…?’ questions, along with smearing poo on the wall and waking at the crack of dawn regardless of the previous night’s bedtime.

Comment on this post

There are a lot of them in our backyard, thanks to the four clucking ladies who deposit an unbelievable amount each day. They hover and buzz and lay their stinky little feet on my bare skin as I’m hanging out the washing. But it’s not the blowies I’m referring to. My Big Boy is flying the pre-school coop this week, off to the land of primary school.

I haven’t reflected much on this rather important step in our lives, just gone about the practicalities that come with the transition – buying blue shorts, roll-on sunscreen and a lunch box, and placing personalised Sponge Bob labels on some.  He has shown nothing but excitement as we’ve counted the number of sleeps to Day1. Me?

A few thoughts:

• oh my God, am I really old enough to have a school-aged child? (the same ‘oh my god’ feeling I had when we took him home from hospital - the feeling that perhaps someone ought to assess my capacity to take on such a responsibility)
• thank god (another year at home would’ve driven us all around a very sharp bend)
• thank god (perhaps the teachers will sort out his annoying habits, like putting everything in his mouth, acting like he knows it all, wiping poo on walls and a defiance that is really hard to crack – that’s their job, right, to correct all of our parental errors and turn our children into educated angels?)
• oh my god, do I have to do homework and know things like long division?
• oh my god, am I obliged to do tuck shop duty and bake cakes for the fete?
• oh my god, I’m really going to have to make sure we’re not running out the door, screaming at each other five minutes before the bell goes (and breaking into a sweat as I attempt to reach his classroom before he’s whisked to the principal’s office for minding, along with other kids whose parents are obviously disorganised and don’t care enough to greet their little petal on time)

So, to my Big Boy of school age, fly fly. Go forth with confidence, enthusiasm and resilience and I will do my best to go forth with timeliness, patience, basic numeracy and literacy skills and plenty of hugs.

Comment on this post

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!

Comment on this post