Hang-gliding Mom

There has been much talk lately about helicopter parenting. If you need a refresher, a helicopter parent is someone who hovers protectively over his/her children and essentially butts in all the time even when they are old enough to know better. I have heard of helicopter moms calling law firms when their children are grown to find out why their son/daughter did not get a raise or dads coming with their children to job interviews, college interviews, and the like.

I made a vow to never be one of these parents. I want my children to have autonomy, to grow up as individuals (like I have a choice in that one) and see the world the way their hearts and minds tell them to as opposed to having their father's or my personal views of life shoved down their throats (except, of course, for the essentials: love of literature, love of God, great taste in music, a true desire to help people, use of proper grammar, etc.). Oh, who am I kidding? While I don't believe I'm a true helicopter mom, I do believe that ever since the kids were born, I have secretly taken up hang-gliding. See, with hang-gliding I make less noise. I do hover over them; however, I can soar up to the sky on the pretense that I am letting my kids do what they need to do, but bam! I can swoop down on an air current and meddle loudly all I wish, all the while holding onto that bar -- you know, the one I can keep impossibly high if I need to? Hang-gliding mom: it's what's new in dysfunctional parenting!

I have a difficult time with failure. Mine. Others'. Especially my kids'. Wanting or needing to do everything right and perfectly (a holdover from childhood), I go through each day trying not to make mistakes, especially egregious ones. And I extend this lovely way of life to my children. I have never been one who can just watch and see when one of them is going to make a mistake, be it large or small. I cringe. My mouth scrunches up funny. I start sweating. And then, I have to say something, usually loudly, like: "Grace, for the 82nd time, a) We are going to be late for school, b) You need to pick up the yard, c) Have you finished your homework?, d) What do you mean there's a poster due tomorrow?"

For the most part, my practically perfect daughter is on the ball. She has a planner. She even writes her assignments in them. She gets good grades and has made some great friends, all on her own. I have not hovered over her as much as I have the boys because she has been able to get things done. However, my daughter has become a teenager, about three years too early for my taste. And with this new designation comes the requisite slack-jaw and blank stare. My little pookie, my "gracious," has become a bit surly and unresponsive and even, dare I say, forgetful or preoccupied? What happened to blind obedience? uh, . . . I mean, why doesn't she listen to me anymore? I nag quite loudly; why can't she hear me?

So, what is a hang-gliding mom to do? My wise hubby says to let her forget an assignment or be late to school because she needs to learn that her actions or lack of actions have consequences. And while she has been so together for the past 10 years, she needs to reassess and start making some choices for herself and on her own. SAY WHAAATT?

If I take the hub's advice, then what will be my role in all this (since it's all about me, right?)? Do I soar high and let her find her way regardless of her choices good or bad, or do I swoop down and carry her along? Some of both? Since she is only 10, almost 11, I tend to lean toward the latter. But what if the hub is right, and letting her fail at something (late assignments, incomplete assignments, forgetting something, being late to school, etc.) will be the best way for her to learn? Can I be strong enough for that? Because the opposite holds true too: she is only 10, almost 11, and her failures at this age are less painful and less permanent. They are only painful for a little while and hopefully will have a lasting impact.

I am wrestling with this one, and I hope I make the right choice for her. It's hard. But I will hold tight to my bar, kick off the cliff and soar -- not too high, mind you, but high enough to see her, reach her, and hopefully not crash into a mountain while I'm up there.