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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I could write about my fascination with the bathroom mirror, or, more accurately, the reflection that peers back at me – a stripy, glistening stomach and a pair of breasts that don’t even look related (while both zigzagged with blue veins, one will often sit lower and jiggle more than its firmer, more upright counterpart, depending on the feeding status). But what I am referring to is reflecting on my Big Boy’s baby stage.

People refer to hindsight as being ‘great’. Truth be told, I think it’s rather irritating. There are times when I would rather have a complete lack of insight, because what I seem to learn from hindsight frustrates me and there’s nothing I can do about it, bar time travel, and I can’t afford that.

Hindsight has delivered two main learnings, as I have reflected on my Big Boy’s babyhood:

1. A mummy does know her body and her baby better than anyone else, and if we were allowed to just get on the with the job, we would probably do it better! I nearly punched a midwife when she came to check how breastfeeding was going with child number two. ‘Yeah, we’re doing well, thanks,’ I had reported proudly. At this point I expected her to smile sweetly, congratulate me and float quietly from the room with her clipboard. Not so. Having never laid eyes on me or Baby before this encounter, she suggested that I try a different feeding technique, just because ‘that’s how you’re meant to do it’. Serious? I just said that we were doing fine, NOW LEAVE US ALONE!

2. No bomb is going to explode if you attempt to put baby to breast before the recommended two and a half hours is up. If the baby is hungry, feed it – it may well have a big appetite (as my Big Boy does, and obviously did). All those times I panicked and clumsily squished him into the pram’s cocoon to pacify him with a bolt around the block because it had only been two hours since his last feed, he was probably thinking, ‘Is this woman crazy? All I want is a god damned drink!’

3. If your baby happens to fall asleep while you’re cuddling him, you’re not setting him up for complete dependence on cuddles for achieving sleep for the rest of his life. Enjoy those baby cuddles because Big Boys prefer to simply jump on you.

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I began writing this post a couple of weeks ago. The plan was to talk about ‘counting chickens’. You know, counting them before they hatch and the warning that comes with doing so. I was going to make reference to my baby boy’s sleeping and the temptation to start counting those chooks after one good night (which equates to getting up only once to feed).

But since the conception of that post things have changed a little in the back yard. The balance of gender within the family has shifted. Death has entered and burial ceremonies have been held. Earlier this week Daisy and Crash passed away.

Daisy and Crash were two of the lovely ladies in the chicken house. Daisy was the gregarious silky bantam; the sociable one who was keen to explore our vegie patch and our compost. She would come out to greet us and didn’t shy away too much when we approached her (though the thump of small Cars gumboots towards her made her a little more jumpy). Daisy was the explorer – in fact she went so far as to explore the park over our back fence and the nature strip outside our house a while back. Crash was given her name by nature of the fact that she often tumbled off the ramp half way through her descent from the pen, landing with a crash on the ground below.

Anyway, they were our little ladies and now they are no longer, thanks to a highly contagious chook disease (that I’ve been told will likely take Tree Trunk, the third girl, with it in the near future). This has been our son’s first exposure to dying and death and I have to say, he’s handling it well. There were no tears, though that would’ve been okay, even though he is a boy (KIDDING!!). Rather, father and son set about fetching their digging tools from the shed and digging a hole, or two, to place these not so soft and fluffy chickens in. We said a few words (there isn’t much to say to a bantam who has only been around for a few short months…) and filled in the holes.

My son didn’t say much after that, except to confirm Daisy’s departure later that night – ‘So mum….Daisy’s dead.’ “Yep. Bit sad, hey?’ ‘Yeah…’. There wasn’t a barrage of questions about life and death and what happens next, thank god, cos I don’t really have one of those speeches prepared. I wonder how long Tree Trunk will give me to whip one up…?

** In regard to ‘counting chickens’, the baby boy did not begin his transition into once nightly feeding after that one delicious night. No siree. Wouldn’t want to be too predictable, would he? That would just be boring. Perhaps the death of two bantams was a sign, a warning to me about the danger of counting chickens.

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He knows…somehow. Don’t ask me how, I can’t explain. All I know is that he knows. Spooky….

My baby boy is onto me. Whenever I have hopes for an highly indulgent activity such as a nap during the day or a hot, lavender infused bath in the evening, his peaceful sleep time fails to eventuate. He may go down without much fuss, and even appear to be sleeping soundly, but inevitably it ends abruptly. Or he fusses, groans and cries on and off and sleep never gets established. Can he read my mind? Does he think me unworthy of a little relaxation?

Today was marked as a day to make sure I had a nap, having failed to do so over the last few days and finding that the fatigue was getting on top of me. I lay him down in his cot and went about filling in some forms until I knew he was asleep. Problem was, he kept making noises…for about 45 minutes. When eventually I decided that the coast was clear for nap time (I swear he was sleeping!) I peeled back my doona, curled up into a ball, closed my eyes and, no more than 30 seconds later, he started crying and didn’t stop. Cruel, just plain cruel.

So, instead of getting some much needed feet up, eyes closed, brain shut down time I power-walked (perhaps ‘power’ is a little over-stated) around the block with a grizzly baby. Hmmm, maybe that was his little plan all along, to give me some fresh air and exercise. Maybe his sixth sense isn’t so evil. Still, a nap would’ve been nice.

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Sleep – that blissful state of peace, relaxation and rejuvenation. A distant, but beautiful memory. Once upon a time I could access this mystical state of existence overnight, relatively undisturbed, waking only to a full bladder or a sleep-talking toddler. I would grumble at being woken prematurely by said toddler early in the morning (and still do, to be truthful), preferring to rouse when my body and mind were fully recharged (a preference, but not a reality). How quickly the bar shifts.

Sleep is golden, delicious and at times elusive. More than two hours of sleep in any one attempt is a special treat, unpredictable by nature, precious and rare. It draws me in, regardless of where I am or what I am doing – I have been known to wake with a snort in the bath, multiple times, and to jerk awake whilst breastfeeding during the middle of the day. I often enter this restful world only to be shaken from it moments later by sounds of a lamb bleating in the field (the newborn).

As a consequence of limited access to sleep, life is a dense fog. I sound, look and function as though I haven’t slept for weeks – dark circles under the eyes (observed and reported by my eight year old nephew to all during a family do), flat hair, croaky voice and an inability to make decisions or even string a sensible phrase together. I am attempting to rest when the infant does, caring far less than previously about doing anything useful with my time. But restful intentions aren’t always rewarded when the baby has a blocked nose and snorts, groans and wakes far too often because of it.

I don’t recall feeling the effects of sleep deprivation like this the first time around. In fact, I became an enthused baker during nap times and a very house proud stay at home mum. Not even a hint of either of those now. Sure, I eat cakes and I stay at home, but there are no muffins in the oven and plenty of dust balls dancing on the surface of the floorboards!

Knowing during pregnancy that this fog is on its way really ought to make you cherish those five, brief, middle of the night toilet stops in the third trimester. Still, if women could truly appreciate the fog that awaits them on the other side of the delivery room, the population may well die off.

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