My Helicopter Kids
Two out of three of my adult children classify as “helicopter kids.” Granted, I only thought of this label once we were all on lock-down, but I have a feeling it’s going to stick when/if our lives return to something resembling normal.
In all fairness, I have to take ownership of the rebellious teen role that plays perfectly with their helicopter role. For one thing, I frequently lie or at least spin the truth into something I think they can tolerate. I might comment on the fact that the farmer’s market across from where I live seems to be enforcing stringent distancing and mask-wearing protocols; I don’t say I’ve actually gone inside!
Of course I slip up: mentioning that I’m spending so much less cash than I used to that I can go to an ATM and withdraw $60 that will stay in my wallet for more than a week. I can almost hear my eldest daughter’s hackles rise from 300 miles away. This time, she kept quiet, but I knew she wanted to grill me on why I felt the need to actually go inside an enclosed ATM and why I couldn’t figure out a safer way to get cash; moreover, why did I need cash anyway? After all, I’m not going anywhere, right?
She was lovingly worried when I had to take my cat to the vet and called to see how she was doing after the appointment. After I explained that I’d convinced the doctor to give Sheba an antibiotic injection, then came the inquisition about how safe I was being while getting this done. Like the kid coming home after curfew, I somewhat sullenly explained that Actually, they’re doing curbside service! Yes, you don’t even go into the facility beyond the entrance where a masked tech sits behind a computer and another masked tech mounts the stairs to take your pet away from you. You can take a walk or just wait until the vet calls when she’s done with her assessment. No longer can you hover over the exam table, cooing and petting, not to mention getting in their way. You stand outside with the other masked pet parents, waiting to pay your exorbitant bill (credit cards only) and take your feline or canine back home.
As I described all this, I could feel myself wanting to say something like, “God, do you think I’m stupid or what?” But no, I have to bite my tongue or risk a real lecture about how it’s her prerogative to worry and there’s a lot to worry about and she’s only asking for my own good. You know the drill.
My other helicopter kid is my son, only 24, happily quarantined in Portland, Oregon with his girlfriend. When we talk through Face-Time, his grim visage stares back at me or if we’re on an old-fashioned phone call, I hear his monotone voice uttering “Hmm,” to just about everything I have to say. It’s as if he’s convinced I’m not doing anything right and he has to remain suspicious and guarded just in case I really screw up. If I tell him what I’m doing to continue taking care of my knee now that I don’t have in-person physical therapy anymore to help with post-surgery rehab, he never sounds simply encouraging, or after I’ve given him the basic outline of my plan, he’ll ask a series of questions all designed to emphasize the inherent flaws in my thinking. Once again, I’m the kid being subjected to the third degree by a persistently distrustful parent; except they’re the kids and I’m the parent! I can hear myself wailing, “What’s it going to take for you to trust me for once?” “You act like you think I’m an idiot!”
Mercifully, my middle daughter cuts me a lot of slack. It’s not in her nature to be dictatorial, except perhaps with her husband who’s also been caught in the vortex of never doing anything right. But she’s working on that. In our relationship, I think she still likes me being the mom, though she too can be quite caring and attentive. Although she was the one of my three kids who screamed at me at the age of four, “You’re not the boss of me!” she seems more tolerant of me making my own decisions now, and we tend to be in agreement on most aspects of managing life in this pandemic. But come to think of it, I haven’t been entirely transparent with her either. I guess it’s something about the parent-child relationship that requires a certain amount of obfuscation — even lying — for each side to protect the autonomy we hold so dear.
