Watching My Inner Helicopter Parent Fly Away - NOT

We carry into motherhood the baggage from our childhood. For those who have been blessed with a happy one, there is a wonderful connection running through past, present, and future that is a precious rarity much envied by those of us who are less fortunate. As for the rest of us, we strive to avoid the mistakes of our own mothers, mistakes that ironically helped mold us into the caring, sensitive, and vigilant beings that we are today.

The current generation of helicopter parents are a product of childhood cautionary tales combined with a veiled form of comparative parenting. We are the modern day Smiths striving to keep up with the elusive Joneses. A helicopter parent will very rarely say, "If it was good enough to do X while I was growing up then it is good enough for my child." We also very rarely think, My child doesn't need to do Y; I didn't and I turned out fine. We are motivated by a desire to create an environment BETTER than that which we grew up in, whether that means more toys, more vacations, more time with Mom, or just more attention. And our materialistic monetarily based society is more than happy to accommodate. For anyone with enough money, there are products and services out there that our mothers never even dreamed of, much less desired. For starters, there are vast libraries of books covering topics from sleep training to homemade baby food recipes to early toddler emotional development to early childhood discipline. For the generation before us, there was little more than Dr. Benjamin Spock and even that was viewed with skepticism. The notion of reading books on parenting was mostly considered preposterous. As my mother contemptuously told me when she saw my library of child rearing books, "Parenting is something you DO, not something you READ."

Consider also the bevy of classes available to entice even the most closeted helicopter parent: baby sign language, infant massage, music together, dance, gymnastics, infant swimming, toddler skiing, immersion Spanish or Chinese, and many more. Like the a la carte menu of a five star restaurant, they all sound so good. So we sample and survey and exchange notes with the other helicopter parents. We flock to the "right" classes with the "best" teachers. Maybe it's all hype or maybe we will stumble upon the one who will recognize and nurture the secret latent talent in our child that we do not yet see. If my mother was contemptuous of my books, she was beyond disgusted with the multitude of classes in which we enrolled.

Of course there is the piece de resistance, the Holy Grail if you will, for the helicopter parent: the RIGHT school. Forget the minor expenses of books and classes; this is where the REALLY BIG bucks are spent. For the price of a small kingdom, the average helicopter parent can buy the reassurance that if her child does not get into an Ivy League school it will not be her fault. Just before my twins turned three years old, we enrolled them in no fewer than 3 preschools. One was a drop off with extended care for the days that both of us worked. It was play-based and came recommended both by other mothers in my network and by online reviews, criteria that are crucial in the decision-making process of any helicopter parent. The second was an expensive academic preschool which I had toured TWICE the year before. This was also a drop-off program and was in session only a few hours twice a week even though it was more expensive than the first school which offered extended childcare hours. The third school was a parent participation preschool which met for a few hours on Saturday mornings, markedly less expensive although much more heavily laden with after school responsibilities - for the parent. In a bout of indecision, I maintained this ridiculously busy and somewhat confusing schedule for a semester before withdrawing my children from one of them. For the first four months of the school year, they would ask me every morning, "Where are we going today?" A very good question indeed.

We are now at the age of kindergarten planning. While the very notion is beyond ridiculous to my mother, we the helicopter parents spent many hours agonizing over the age old question for the parent of a child born in the fall - send them ahead or hold them back? For my mother's generation, this question is a no-brainer: Get the child out of the house into the public school system as soon as possible. From my mother's perspective, why on earth would anyone in their right mind elect to keep their child underfoot in the household, the mother's domain, for a second longer than is absolutely necessary? After all, we want to FINALLY see our tax dollars put to good use and regain the solitude and privacy of our household for at least some small portion of the day. I suspect that were it in my mother's capacity she would have thrown a ticker tape parade on the day her last child (me) went to kindergarten for the first time.

But here's the thing: I am not my mother. While my children drive me absolutely crazy from time to time and I have moments when I desperately want to run and hide from motherhood if only for a few hours, I actually really like my kids. Unlike my own mother, I am not chomping at the bit tempted to yell, "Don't let the door hit you on the way out!" I want to savor every moment and memory with them, from the smell of their downy baby hair to the unexpected gentle touch of a soft palm on my bare arm. The good and the bad both have space in my heart for them. I would rather have the pain of a thousand heartaches and be fully engaged with my kids than be spared a second of pain and lose a fragment of an inkling of who they are becoming. I don't want to miss it, not any of it. Because as they are growing up, so am I. The beauty of my children is that I get to live a new life with them and experience the world around me with them.

Why would anyone want to rush through that?

So hover away. Study them. Plan for them. Obsess over them. And enjoy.

This is an original post to Year of 4s.

Are my children enough?

I am not typically an adventurous person, especially with four year old twins in tow. But at my husband's request, we recently spent four weeks in Mexico where my mother-in-law has lived for the last twenty years. This wasn't Club Med Ixtapa or Puerto Vallarta or Cabo San Lucas. We stayed in historic places on the Yucatan peninsula where it is not unusual to wake up with a tarantula, a scorpion, or a boa constrictor on the back porch. There was a beautiful lagoon, awe-inspiring Mayan ruins, expansive colonial mansions over 400 years old, and festivals in the evenings in the town square where men and women danced and sang about love and the glory of their city. There were also plenty of days and nights when the heavy humid heat in the air was oppressive leaving me scratching my MANY mosquito bites in frustration, wondering if I would ever feel really clean again. 

Both my MIL and dh were often attuned to my more frustrated moments (a wallflower I am not) and it was during these times as well as late into the evening after my defiant and mischievous children reluctantly fell asleep that I would peruse David James Smith's most recent book "Young Mandela". I had recently read Mandela's autobiography from 1994 "Long Walk to Freedom" which turned me into an instant fan. I was impressed by his steadfast and enduring devotion to a cause which required so much personal sacrifice, in particular over 27 years in prison away from his wife and his young children. To never see my children grow up is a sacrifice I could not imagine making under any circumstance.

So I hid in my sadly un-air conditioned room from time to time under the lazy whirl of the ceiling fan and read about the world in which Nelson Mandela grew up, a South African apartheid society where mosquito bites and humidity were the least of a black man's troubles. In "Long Walk to Freedom" Mandela's regrets over his personal sacrifices are quite muted. However, in "Young Mandela" the voices of his family's regrets can be heard loud and clear. While the book covered many other contrasting elements in perspective between Mandela and several other freedom fighters, it is the familial component that strikes me to the core the most, for obvious reasons. 

Take our extended trip to Mexico, for instance. I had kept a running journal of our experiences, the trips to the beaches and ruins and marvelous dinners both homemade and at various eating establishments. But I heavily edited out the emotional outbursts, by both children and grown ups alike, which were a product of over exhaustion, stifling heat, and a multitude of insects with vociferous appetites. Did I re-write history the same way David James Smith implies in his book that Nelson Mandela did? Will my children, on some level, resent my subtle propaganda in the way I have chosen to remember their childhood versus the way it really was? Nelson Mandela's children clearly do. And based on Smith's account of the acrimony between the Nelson Mandela Foundation and his first family, resentment unfortunately pervades his familial relationships.

My newest part time work assignment obligates monthly visits to Sacramento for weeklong periods, just myself, no kids. Granted, it is a far cry from 27+ years in prison. Still, will my young children feel some vague sense of abandonment at the far end of the spectrum of what Mandela's daughters, Zenani and Zindzi, clearly feel? More importantly, I wonder what aspects of their childhood I will be missing during my absences. New games? New playmates? The gradual and insidious evolution of their personalities? Will there be an indefinable distance between us that, over time, will become more and more difficult to bridge as my children grow older without me? I often wonder how much Mandela really regrets not getting to know his oldest son, Thembi, before his untimely death. The time we spend away from our children is unfortunately lost forever. One of Mandela's comrades was asked if all his personal sacrifice was worth the struggle against apartheid. His response was less than satisfying.

But the most uncomfortable and unsettling issue that arises for me after reading "Young Mandela" juxtaposed against "Long Walk to Freedom" is this: 

Unlike Nelson Mandela, I have no noble cause which would compel me to sacrifice my family life in the ways he did. Reading both accounts of the relatively peaceful revolution against apartheid in South Africa, I am still unable to irrevocably resolve in my mind and my heart either position - neither his, which can be described as "freedom at any cost", nor his children's, which is a tragic lamentation of the family life they never got to have. Both perspectives are valid and virtuous - and sadly incongruous. I don't believe I could have made the choices he had, even knowing the inevitable outcome. So I ask myself with hope and some degree of trepidation, when I am 92 years old like Nelson Mandela, will I reflect on my life with satisfaction or with regret? Will I be fulfilled by my devotion to my family or feel a personal void for not contributing a greater good to our society? Will I have secured a good enough future for my offspring by concentrating my efforts on the home life before me, or am I being short-sighted by not investing my efforts into the future of the generations beyond? Mankind is rife with causes and struggles, many of them right before us in our own small corner of the world. But these causes are not where I choose to invest the vast majority of my energy and effort. No, that bottomless repository resides firmly with my family and I can't see that changing for any reason. I consciously make this decision every day. But I still ask myself: Will my children be enough for me? I sincerely hope so.

Disclosure: I received a complimentary copy of "Young Mandela" to review. All the opinions expressed in this post are completely my own.


This is a "From Left to Write" book club post.

Happy Un-Thanksgiving!

After publishing a post complaining about our over scheduled holiday plans, I ironically found myself suddenly faced with the prospect of a Thanksgiving Day with no plans whatsoever, no family or friends or feast even. The idea was both relaxing and somewhat depressing at the same time. This would be the first time since I could remember when there would be no flurry of activities to prepare for a huge elaborate mostly-home-cooked meal, no frenzied rush to hide dirty laundry and put out clean bath towels, no frantic scuffle out the door racing down a chilly road to someone's home before the turkey was carved. In fact, since none of us are big fans of the typical turkey dinner, there would be no turkey at all this year as there was no motivation to erect the traditional facade of choking down forkfuls of dry meat drowning in chunky globs of mottled brown gravy.

It was ironically a tradition that I became misty-eyed at the prospect of missing for the first time since my childhood. And now with two of my own small children, the thought of skipping it was further compounded by a large portion of maternal guilt. Was I a bad mother for allowing this to happen, the un-Thanksgiving?

In the past, if we had not been invited elsewhere to celebrate the repast, I had always magnanimously hosted at our home inviting friends, family, and anyone else whom I thought might have been forgotten by their own friends and family that particular season. Of course, this year WE were the forgotten, and while, in all fairness, we had received an invitation to dinner from a friendly family, they had a last minute change of plans. Interestingly enough the many folks whom I had so generously welcomed into my home in years past were strangely silent. Hmm. Does this make me feel like a more gracious, magnanimous, and, therefore, BETTER person than all of them combined? Why, yes it does!

But I digress.

So there we were, two days before Thanksgiving, my holiday blues waffling over whether or not to perch on my shoulders, when I saw it sitting innocuously in my email inbox: Dodge Ridge now opening. Due to an early generous precipitation, our nearest ski resort (still 3 1/2 hours away) would be open on Thanksgiving Day. Initially, I didn't take the notion very seriously. After all, we were strapped for cash, definitely NOT in ski condition, and totally unprepared. It actually didn't register on my radar until the next day, i.e., the day before Thanksgiving.

But my dh, dreamer that he is and oddly attuned to my shifting mood swings, perhaps sensed my impending disconsolation. The next thing I knew, he had dug out our old snow gear from storage, bought a few road trip snacks, made us sandwiches, sweet-talked my stepson into an hour drive to pick up our dogs (as the kennels were closed at 7 p.m. on the eve of Thanksgiving), and hustled us to the nearest Sports Basement for some cheap ski rentals within a half hour of closing for the holiday. That's the thing about my crazy impulsive husband; when he sets his mind to something, he makes it happen. He is the quintessential rainmaker.

So at 7:30 am on Turkey Day, about two hours later than we had hoped for, we set out on the road for an ambitious day trip, our first skiing venture of the season, on a shoestring budget and an impulse.

My amazing four-year olds were delightful essentially the entire trip there. Of course I already had this expectation due to a prior surprisingly fun car ride to Carlsbad last summer but it is always nice to have a repeat performance. Chattering away happily and munching on pogie bait car treats, they gradually fell asleep as my dh and I took advantage of a rare opportunity: hours of adult conversation. Forgoing a much needed nap, I basked in the glow of my love's undivided attention, something I hadn't experienced in a looong time. As the miles stretched on, the air grew slightly thinner and though the California sun still shined brightly above us, the outside temperature gauge dropped ever so slightly as the passing patches of grass grew more and more sparse replaced first by frost then by thin blankets of snow. (The quote of the trip was from my newly wakened son who asked me wide-eyed with wonder, "Mommy, is the white stuff snow?")

It was already 11:00 when we reached the resort, sunny blue skies, crisp air, and a perfect parking spot in an uncrowded lot. The day already held great promise! After slipping my tousle-haired children into their snow wear and watching them squeal with delight over dirty chunks of icy snow next to our front tires, it occurred to me that they would have been just as happy playing in a dirty parking lot as on a pristine groomed ski slope.

With the forethought of a seasoned veteran mom, I took multiple pictures with my smart phone while we were still standing by the car in the lot. After all, who knew what kind of day lay ahead of us? I wanted to capture the memory of this trip while we were still smiling! Clomping across the lot in our ski boots lugging our skis clumsily, in a flash I remembered how arduous skiing really is and I silently cursed my silly romanticized highly edited memories of ski trips past. We made a beeline for the bunny slope with our excited children in tow where I got a rude awakening from the rope tow.

I had not skied in at least 5 years. I had not comfortably skied at least 50 pounds ago, long before children and even before marriage. So lugging a 34 lb. child between my legs while frantically gripping a rope tow hauling my own lugubrious form was quite an endeavor the first time. And the second. And the third. Well, pretty much the entire duration that we were there.

But, oh, the ironic bliss of being with my beloved family, my children glowing with the thrill of their newfound love for skiing, and my beloved husband flushed with the return of a forgotten love for the sport. He even managed to squeeze in a solo run sans wife and kids finagling an unauthorized trip on a chair lift which we soon followed as a treat to the kids. Their first chair lift ride. It was nothing short of magical.

As we sat at the picnic tables basking in the sunshine reflected off the snowy slopes with our bellies full of a splurged meal of chili and fish and chips, from the depths of my heart and soul I was incredibly and spontaneously thankful to be where I was at that exact moment in time, sore calves and cramped toes and all. It was breathtakingly perfect. And I realized in that moment that there was no better way for me to truly experience Thanksgiving.

We limped off the slopes, tired and happy with the kids yearning for more, a fantastically positive sign of success as far as I am concerned. My happy contented children slept for most of the ride home, and the words exchanged with my beloved as the sun set and the dusk powdered the sky with hues of orange then purple were more intimate and honest than we have spoken in years. I did not think it possible, but our perfect day was actually outdone by the renewal of our vows to each other that night, vows to be each other's ally and friend for life, to always be on the same team, and to never give up hoping and dreaming for our family and for ourselves.

We still bask in the glow of the memory of that day. As averse as I am to use superlatives, dare I say it? It was the perfect Thanksgiving.

This is an original post to Year of 4s.

Burning the Midnight Oil

Midnight? Try 3:36 am which is precisely what time I woke up and realized yet again that while my entire household sleeps, I cannot. Two four-year olds, my darling husband, my loyal Schnauzer, even the new 5-month old Yorkshire terrier on her first night in our home lay in deep slumber. I am listening to the symphony of their breathing, snores and quiet wheezes, the life breath of my family. Even though I know I should be fast asleep with them, that tomorrow there will be Hell to pay because a poor night of sleep for a mother of two active young children is a recipe for disaster, I honestly can't help myself.

Dare I say it? I love my family intensely always - but they are so much easier to love when they are sleeping.

When they are in sweet slumber, I can pretend that I am the perfect mother, wife, and dog-lover. All needs at the present time, in this magical late-night instance, have been met. I need not feel guilty for buying my kids hoagies for dinner because I was too tired to cook another meal, or for responding to my husband with an ill temper because I am overwhelmed by work and household chores, or for not taking my patiently loyal dog for a walk (yet again). I once heard a fantastically hippie-dippy speaker once say, "You don't need to change anything in your life to be happy right now, right this instance." Yeah right, buddy. Tell that to my waistline and my bank account.

But here, in the quiet and calm darkness amidst those whom I love the most, I can see how his words ring true. I know it will be a different story when the dawn comes and the first streaks of sunlight penetrating the darkness will beckon me to the kitchen to whittle away through the litany of to do's that roust me every morning before my mind is flooded with the rest of the day's chores, worries, and responsibilities. But for now I am at peace. I am so incredibly grateful for my beloveds. I am happy.

This is an original post to Year of 4s.

I adore Lorraine!

My first bona fide homage is to my good friend Lorraine, whom I just adore for a myriad of reasons. She is loyal and smart and incredibly supportive not to mention creative and artistic and did I mention she is beautiful as well? She is kind and whimsical and has an even keeled temperament that I not-so-secretly covet.

She loves my kids who love her too which is always an added plus. She has been my friend for the last 12 years through thick and thin. I've known her longer than my husband. She had a front row seat to all our pre-marital drama and break ups and reconcilations and conflicts. She is always a sympathetic listener and a ready shoulder to cry on. She is one of the few pre-marital girlfriends I still have who, despite my problems with dh, was able to overlook them once we decided to get married. Therefore, she is one of my few pre-marital girlfriends who can enter our home without the slightest resentment from dh. A HUGE plus.

But none of these reasons is why I adore her so. Here is the REAL reason I value our friendship so much:

She reminds me of the outside world, the one that has nothing to do with potty training or preschools or time outs or play dates. The one that could care less about the fight I had with dh that morning or whether or not they liked me at my new job.

When I get together with Lorraine, somehow our conversation always drifts from the details of our daily routines to the greater issues. Media censorship and moral responsibility. American government and foreign policy. Racial discrimination. The economy (and by this I mean its global effect on society, not whether or not we can afford to vacation in Mexico this Christmas). For a brief period of time, I get to feel a part of that greater good that we all deep down long for and need. I get to re-join the rest of society, everyone else's joys, sorrows, and challenges.

Please don't misunderstand me. I love my children and husband deeply (strangely revealing that I place the children first? I think not...) They are, after all, ultimately my world all day every day. I do get a sense of satisfaction (albeit weary) at the end of each long day knowing that I have given my best effort to enhance and support the lives of each member of my family by whatever means necessary. Need more fiber in your meal? Here are the apples and broccoli. Need more household income? I'll work extra days and weekends; I'll even find a second job. Need friends, education, diversion? Play dates, preschool, trips to the zoo or museum -- I plan and schedule them all. I work part-time at two different jobs while still looking for more work. I take the kids shopping for birthday gifts, teach them manners, pack up the big swim bag for every lesson after making sure I've slathered them with the "right" child-friendly sunscreen. On most outings I pack snacks and lunches for them while forgetting to pack so much as a water bottle for myself. I get it. They come first now before my needs, the most basic of which oftentimes barely get met (food, rest, bathroom breaks, and time alone with dh). Ever since my children were born, I have been in serious survival mode feeling as though THEIR very survival depends on me. It's the curse of the modern day working mom/hover parent.

After 4 years, I can honestly admit that it wears on me. And it takes its toll. I dance around with the other parents at the Mommy and Me music class while our amused progeny look on. I've kowtowed to the raging tantrums of a screaming toddler more times than I can remember. I carry CD's of children's music in our car and I download child-friendly animated movies on my iPad. The guilt of working and trying to fulfill their every need is overwhelming. Many, perhaps most, days I don't even feel human any more. I am this sleep-deprived creature, this servant, mindlessly chasing after the elusive holy grail of "Perfect", mother, worker, and wife. I am charged with a task that can never be completed, a prize that can never be won because it doesn't really exist. But I don't really know that, do I? I am the obedient worker drone, tunnel visioned and focused. I am lost.

After a conversation with Lorraine that has nothing to do with my problems or daily activities, I get to feel, dare I say it? human again. I am still here. I may be a working mother and wife now, in all its glory and pain, but the real me is still here.

This is an original post to Year of 4s.

Happy Campers!

How did this happen? I usually prefer four star hotels and five star restaurants. My limited childhood memories of camping are from when I was very young and our family was fairly poor. Camping was the ONLY option for our summer vacations (the alternative was staring at each other and arguing over whose turn it was to stand in front of the window air conditioning unit). I mostly remember how tired and incredibly miserable my mother was during those frugal vacations from my early childhood. The packing, the cooking, the cleaning -- it was all such an incredible chore. (Ironically, even as we became more upper middle-class affluent and could afford a more upgraded lifestyle, my mother still remained tired and incredibly miserable -- hmm.)

Several decades later, I no longer have to subject myself or my 3 1/2 year old twins to the inconveniences and discomforts of outdoor living. While my husband and I are by no means wealthy, we definitely have alternative options.

Yet here we are, deep into the summer, with three camping trips behind us and three more to go before the school year begins.

It's still a lot of work. I can understand firsthand my mother's weariness during these trips. But here is the difference: while I am certainly exhausted much of the time, it is a happy exhaustion. I am with my own beloved family, awestruck by the wonderment of the outdoors reflected in the eyes of my happy children and more deeply in love with my husband by the glow of the campfire than I have ever been over a five star candlelit dinner table. After my filthy and happily exhausted children drop off to sleep reeking of marshmallows and unbrushed teeth, we talk deep into the night under the stars bathed in a moonlight that is sometimes brighter than a street lamp, throwing caution to the wind without any concept or care of bedtimes or morning plans.

I realize that camping is not for everyone, as my more fastidious mommy friends are quick to point out. And had it not been for a preschool camping trip this past spring, I might never have realized how much my children enjoy it. For their sake, we packed up everything but the kitchen sink (only to discover once we got to the campsite that we had forgotten matches), pitched tents on lumpy tree roots under the leaves of a bug and spider infested tree, and endured arduous treks to the distantly located bathrooms down a dusty road every time we needed to pee, poop, or brush our teeth. There was dirt everywhere, the food was clumsily prepared, and washing the cookware was a challenge each and every time.

What can I say? We had a blast. My next camping trip is a mommy-and-me trip, no dads allowed. I'm excited!

This is an original post to Year of 4s.

Look Who's Losing Weight!

So while I am not thrilled to be diagnosed with diabetes at the tender age of 43, imagine my surprise when I stepped on our new electronic scale and saw that I had lost 8 pounds since my diagnosis a mere 3 weeks ago! I suppose it only stands to reason considering how recently food has lost its appeal for me. That's what happens when the only carbs you get to eat taste like cardboard and they wad up in your mouth with every bite like tissue paper. Yum -- NOT. While my BMI still technically classifies me as "obese", it is slowly inching towards the less obnoxious sounding "overweight" category which is infinitely less demeaning to my already battered self-esteem.

So I guess there is kind of a bright side in all of this, just in the nick of time too since my children have started calling me "fat". To explain, there is a new t.v. show called "Huge" starring Nikki Blonksy, the portly girl from the movie "Hairspray". It's a drama series about a bunch of obese teenagers. The pilot episode was a free download so I figured, What the heck? It was like watching a horrible car accident -- I couldn't turn away. Of course my 3 1/2 year old kids were watching over my shoulder with me in complete fascination. When it was over, my daughter asked me why everyone on the show was fat. Then she astutely pointed out how I was fat as well.

It's not the first time she has called me fat but in the past we have had discussions about how calling someone fat is a rude thing to do. But that was before my diabetes diagnosis. This time when she called me fat, I withheld my initial response which would have been to chastise her. My darling husband immediately stepped in and reprimanded her. However, since we had just watched an entire t.v. show about fat people, the evidence was inarguable. My darling daughter lifted up her shirt to show me her concave belly. Then she proceeded to explain to me how she was NOT fat because her belly didn't stick out like mine. In the midst of this heated discussion, my poor little son tried to mitigate the rising emotion by explaining that my tummy stuck out because they had stretched it when they were growing inside me. (God love him for trying but that was over 3 years ago and the statute of limitations for that excuse has long since expired.)

My dh was still furious with her but I still had to give pause. I mean, the reality is, my BMI is over 30 and I have diabetes. Really, aren't I, um, ACTUALLY FAT? How terribly confusing it must be for my poor children to see these huge actors and actresses on t.v. who are so open and honest about being fat yet their mother before them takes offense at the same terminology. They're 3 1/2 but they're not stupid.

The most I can do is be honest about how it hurts my feelings to be called fat, but I can't deny the obvious truth. And after seeing the surprising number on my scale yesterday, maybe I won't be called fat forever.

This is an original post to Year of 4s.