Showing posts with label helicopter mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label helicopter mom. Show all posts

Thursday, May 29, 2014

I Guess I'm One Of Those Moms (How Did That Happen?)

   I am a total, panic-attack, helicopter mom, and I really don't know where this tendency came from. My mom was not inclined to panic at all. I fell of my bike once when I was a kid, landed on my face, and everything was all swollen and bleeding and there was my mom saying, "You'll be fine." If my daughter had done the same, I would have called an ambulance, the fire department, the police, and I would have done my damned best to press charges against the effing bike; I'd do all this knowing, knowing, that I was being a complete moron, but that knowledge still wouldn't have kept me from going over the bend. And my mom would be right there next to me, rolling her eyes at me for all she was worth and telling my daughter, "You're gonna be fine." So with my mom as an example, I don't know why I seem to be wired to be this type of mom. You learn from example, right? Apparently, wrong.
   Growing up, I never wanted kids. I had Barbies, sure, but I spent my Barbie time doing things like drowning them in the tub, flushing them in the toilet, burying them in the backyard, and painting their faces with war paint because they were gonna go slaughter the cabbage patch kids, who I painted green, because I wanted them to be aliens and had to improvise. I didn't tenderly rock baby dolls to sleep because they freaked me the hell out (still do), and I didn't want them in my bed. In fact, the very fact that dolls were in the room with me often led me to go get in the bed with my sister (sorry sis). I've just never trusted those dead-eyed little creeps.
   I was the girl who put spiders, frogs, and lizards in my pockets,causing my mom to fear laundry in a way that I never will (even though I do despise that chore). I was the girl out catching grasshoppers, and that tea set -- well the teapot made a perfect grasshopper cage. When my dad was wondering how in the hell all the grasshoppers were getting into the house, well, he never checked the teapot.
    I got older, and nothing changed. I never wanted kids. My friends started getting pregnant young, the youngest at age fourteen. I was never gonna have kids, nothing that any of my friends went through made having kids seem like a good idea. To be sure, kids with kids of their own is never a good example of what pregnancy and babies should be like (although all the ones that I am still in touch with are great moms, even if they did start young), but those where the examples I had. The area that I lived in after we moved to Mississippi was predominantly poor, and in neighborhoods like that, you tend to see a lot of teenage pregnancy, along with a bunch of other things, but the pregnancy scared me the most. I didn't want babies. They were freaky, poopy, loud, they were always wet at one end or the other, and they smelled funny. That did not appeal to me at all.
   So when I got pregnant (I was nineteen, and one of the oldest of my group to not have a baby) all my friends rubbed my dislike of babies in my face. Now what was I gonna do? Not gonna be able to run from a poopy diaper when the baby the diaper belongs to belongs to me. I'd refused to even hold many of their babies, so my pregnancy was sweet revenge (since it all worked out for the best, I forgive all you grudge-holding little asshats.)
   Well, the rest is history. I avoided the whole teen mom thing, because I had a birthday in the middle of my pregnancy, which means I was twenty when I gave birth. You may not be prepared to have a baby, but if you find yourself in the position of having one, if you are any kind of a decent person, you step up to the plate and take responsibility (whether that means keeping the baby and learning to be a good parent, or adopting the baby out because you know you won't do that, or whatever), which I am proud to say I did. But given the fact that I never liked children, you would think that I would not be so helicopter-y. Except I do like my child, and I hover around her like she has a gravitational pull specifically tuned to me. Since that is not really that healthy, I force myself to back the hell off of her, because I am trying to raise an independent, capable child who can function in society, not a spoiled, mommy-does-everything-for-me, entitled brat. I think that I am doing well in that regard... but I still don't know where I got these helicopter tendencies. You would have never guessed, in my early years, that I would be one of those moms. But I am a helicopter mom, and I can get really brag-y about my kiddo, and I can overload my facebook with statuses about my kid and a zillion pictures, but there you have it. I guess we never know what kind of parent we will really be until we give it a whirl.

(Disclaimer!!! --- But please, don't actually be so callous, I'm just being a little flip here. Parenting is hard work, and takes a lot of commitment; parenting is not actually something you should do to just 'give it a whirl'.)

Friday, March 29, 2013

The Plight Of A Helicopter Mom

   Yesterday I took my daughter to the show, Shen Yun, which is a performance of classical Chinese dance. We have been to the show once before, and plan to go again, because we really enjoy the dances and the costumes are gorgeous. We go to see them at McCaw Hall, and we always get box seats, which are  up high. Heights are something that make me nervous, but they don't seem to bother my daughter at all.
   Since heights obviously don't bother her,  she is leaning over the rail of the box, which is three stories up, and I am grabbing hold of her and hissing, "Don't do that!" After about 50 times of this, both my mother and my daughter are sick of me and my mom is making cracks about how she's glad I didn't see what they were doing the previous weekend, when she took my daughter to a ballet performance without me.
   And I'm rolling my eyes and exclaiming, "Oh my God, don't tell me!" Because I just really don't want to know. You see, I have a very, very vivid imagination. Sometimes this is a true blessing, but when my daughter is leaning over a rickety-ass railing three stories up, this is nothing but a curse. Because I can see her, clearly, crumpled on the floor with her arms and legs twisted at unnatural angles and blood and brain leaking out of a cracked skull. This flashes into my mind every single time she leans over that damned railing. So I can't help grabbing hold of her, because I panic.
   We make it through the performance and intermission without me causing to much of a ruckus, mainly because my daughter is nicer than I am and stops messing with me and we are in the car going home, complaining about how we were too warm. Now, for whatever reason, McCaw Hall is really warm. This is a great venue, but they do like to be toasty. But my mom is exclaiming that she's too warm even though outside the temperature isn't even 60 degrees, and she mentions that she never acclimated to the south, when we lived in good old MS, because she was always roasting.
   I have to argue with this because in Mississippi in the summer you could literally fry and egg on a car hood. I know this for a fact, because my bestie and I got in a shit load of trouble for frying eggs on her mom's car hood. And that intolerable heat kept us in a constant search for any body of water to jump in so that we could cool off. My bestie has even lost part of her toe to a snapping turtle lurking in the water of one of our creeks, and that didn't even stop us, although it did cause our collective moms to forbid us from jumping in random-ass creeks. We never stopped, so we spent a lot of time grounded. As I'm reminding my mom of this old habit of ours, she turns to my daughter, reminds her of the whole rail business, and tells her, "This is not your mom. This is the alien that took over your mom, and she came from a really wussy planet."
   And you know that your are a true helicopter mom when your parental freak-outs has your own mom calling you a wussy alien body-snatcher. Gotta love Grandmas.