I never envisioned myself as a hovering parent. If you had asked my expectant self how I planned to raise my kids, I would have shared whimsical dreams of wild, carefree days: my children running barefoot in the grass, climbing trees, and getting scrapes on their knees while sipping from the garden hose—just like I did. I imagined quick PB&J lunches followed by endless adventures on their bikes around the neighborhood.
Back then, I had a clear idea of what I wouldn’t be: a smothering, helicopter mom. I admired those parents who allowed their kids to roam freely like little free-range chickens. I still do. While I stand watch at the playground, anxiously observing my child navigate the monkey bars, I see other moms relaxing on benches, laughing and chatting. They remain unfazed by the occasional scraped knee or the sight of a little blood. Their comfort with the inherent risks of childhood only highlights my own nervousness.
It’s a stark contrast to how I imagined I would parent. I always thought I’d be one of those cool, laid-back moms. Instead, I’ve become what I like to call “spotter mom,” always just a step away from swooping in to avert any potential disaster.
My family finds it amusing. How could I, the most easy-going member of our clan, transform into this hyper-vigilant figure who insists that grapes be sliced into quarters for safety? “MK, chill out,” they chuckle. “It’s just a jungle gym. No one’s going to die!”
But inside, the embarrassment and shame churn. I wish I could relax, but I can’t. The moment my first child arrived, my mind shifted from a carefree state to a heightened alertness. Suddenly, the world transformed from a colorful paradise to a menacing arena filled with dangers lurking around every corner. Every car on the road, every uncut grape became a new threat I felt compelled to shield my child from.
I recognize how irrational that sounds even as I write it. Yet, I can’t simply alter the wiring of my brain. My parenting decisions stem from deeply-rooted fears that I can’t switch off, no matter how hard I try.
I see alarming headlines on social media, like a tragic report of a toddler choking on a grape or a child involved in a car accident while unsecured. No amount of counseling or medication can erase those memories from my mind. They loop endlessly, amplifying my fears.
So, I make choices that may seem extreme to others, and I know I’m sometimes ridiculed for it. But let’s be real—my kids won’t be 18 and still eating grapes without them being quartered. The laid-back mom I aspired to be has been overshadowed by my anxiety, making the reality of parenting far more challenging than I ever anticipated.
Some of us are simply wired to be more cautious, and that’s okay. Our kids will thrive, despite our hovering.
So please, spare me the judgment on my helicopter parenting. It’s not just a style; it’s a manifestation of my anxiety. I’m doing my best, and that’s what matters.
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