Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

I have been inching closer. Small but definite steps as though being pulled by a magnetic force, powerless to resist. Sickeningly aware of where I’m headed.

My body weakens, my mind resembles an icecream, clumsily dropped on the pavement, succumbing to the warmth of the sun – my capacity to make decisions, to plan, melts away. The pendulum of emotion begins to swing less wildly, rather hanging limply with barely perceptible movement. I am nearing Point Break.

It’s not one thing or another. If I could decompartmentalise my life and experience each aspect in isolation, I would be fine.

If all I had to deal with was one task or one challenge or one crisis at a time, there would be no blog post.

If all I had to do was deal with a clingy baby, with no need for doing the washing or vacuuming…

If all I had to do was come home from work and make dinner with no thought for bathing or lunch preparation…

If I had an entire day to devote soley to being enthusiastic, energetic and loving towards my volatile school boy with no thought for making beds, doing the shopping or dealing with a clingy baby…done.Well, done better, anyway.

But the reality is that life is not so neat or manageable.

Point Break is the snapping of ligaments as a consequence of being pulled in multiple directions, simultaneously. It is failing to re-fuel when the red light indicates a near-empty tank. It is wading through deep, murky water, unsure of your footing and what lies ahead.

But I sit, reassured in the knowledge that Point Break is not to be confused with The Point of No Return. All I need is a map, clear directions and a full tank*. That’s all.

*A house cleaner, cook, live-in nanny for the middle of the night wakenings, daily massages and hot baths wouldn’t be wasted either.

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There’s been plenty of toil and trouble in our house of late, and emotions may have gotten a  little out of hand.

Of course, the Big Boy (who shall be known from this moment onwards as the School Boy) has started school, and his behaviour has been a little bizarre. I may have mentioned poo on the walls. But that’s nothing compared to the flash backs to those glorious days of the two’s. In the last week, the docile library and a clothing shop have fallen victim to the School Boy’s tremendous, tormenting tantrums. Tiny triggers have sparked major defiance, followed swiftly by screaming and kicking. Nothing, absolutely nothing will calm him down as he continues to howl and make labour-like animal noises all the way home. That’s him. Me?

Perhaps it’s the frustration at knowing that I couldn’t get away with his tantrum, when in fact I have a deep desire to do exactly the same. But my temper doesn’t fair much better. The fury that is ignited when he insists on being defiant, laughing in my face and being completely sociably impossible, is scary. My eyes threaten to burst forth from their sockets and my hands ache to strangle or rip a head clean off. The capacity to feel such anger and the fear that I will one day let go of the thin thread that keeps me from snapping is terrifying.

‘Just walk away,’ I hear the crowds urging. Walk away? Leave him to throw items off shelves and to trip up the frail elderly (with his running down the isle at full pelt followed by skidding along the polished wooden floors on his knees…)? Leave him to understand, by the absence of reprimand, that such behaviour is okay? True, it’s probably a better option than the one that I took, which resulted in afore-mentioned major meltdown. But how would I feel if he did break stuff, injure someone else or even himself (he is known to be just a tad clumsy and prone to the oopsies)?

‘Oh, go easy on him love. He’s just started school and he’s probably out of sorts.’ True, again. But how much do you forgive? How much do you loosen the reigns during each and every transition in life?

He’s not two, and neither am I, and yet we both seem to find a way to behave and react as such. The only difference at the moment, is that I am managing to contain a little more of my rage than him. Just.

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