Pollyism of the week
Polly, hold your tongue!” I find myself saying this inside my brain cave at least once a week – and it all has to do with parenting.
I live in an extended family situation and the one trick to a happy home filled with different generations is: only give advice when asked or in an emergency.
Having parented three completely different kids, who are now young adults, gives me some experience with babies and toddlers. I have to admit, though, that I’ve forgotten a lot of my children’s baby milestones and have to refer to their Plunket books.
It’s interesting how these books change for each child you have. The first one is filled out religiously, even scrawling up the side of the page with notes attached. With the second child, it’s filled out fairly well, though once they get to age one, the notes taper off. With the third child, I actually can’t remember where I put the Plunket book. It may have ended up in a giant toy box buried under a Transformer, a broken Buzz Lightyear and a million Lego bricks.
My daughter has a toddler. Oh, my goodness, this child is more than the light of my life and the sunshine in my soul. Roseanna is the light in every chandelier on the planet and my sunshine, moonshine and unicorn sparkle all in one.
Parenting is different now. I recall feeding each of my children at a high chair with a spoon. Roseanna gets all
her food put on a tray, and she picks and chooses with her hands. It totally does my head in, but it’s working. I believe spoon-feeding my youngest son is why today he may be awesome at sport, but trying to pour milk into a bowl or getting coffee in a cup is almost impossible for him.
My daughter is a great mum – better than I was – but every now and then, I have to bite my tongue. It might be something as simple as, “Perhaps enough of PawPatrol. Some fingerpainting might be good?” I want to say it, but (cue triumphant music), I don’t. I just stand around, waiting for my opinion to be asked, and if it’s not, I just go back down to my end of the house and watch Netflix and write.
I was a parent who was scared of everything. I was terrified when they got sick. I was scared when they went to preschool. I was frightened of germs and not boiling everything for 20 minutes in a pot on the stove. I was scared of breastfeeding, then scared to stop. I was afraid to let the kids try and fail.
As much as I want to pipe up with, “Try an ice-cold teething ring!” I sit or stand, waiting to be asked, and when I am, I act super-cool, like I’m surprised to be asked.
I’m just not really sure about that whole spreading food across a surface and letting them choose. It’s like a toddler smorgasbord nightmare three times a day.