I have never thought of myself as a helicopter parent, the kind who hovers over their children to fix their problems. I am more of a tactical strike kind of gal — get in, get out, done. When Molly had a bedbug infestation in her California dorm several years ago (brought in by summer campers), I flew out, performed the eradication (no easy task; much washing and sanitizing involved) and then flew back, mission accomplished. When she was bullied in middle school, I counseled her on how to deal with her tormentors and then I contacted their parents for a parent-to-parent chat. It wasn’t as straightforward as getting rid of bedbugs — bullies can be more resilient — but at least, as mom, I was part of the solution.
That’s what parents do. Our job is to help our children navigate the hardships of life. One of my favorite Olivia Newton-John songs, “Let Me Be There,” that I have always thought of as a theme song running through my life, first with my baby brother and then with my three children, goes like this:
“Holding your hand,
Standing by to catch you when you fall,
Seeing you through,
In everything you do.”
“Watching you grow,
And going through the changes in your life,
That’s how I know,
I always want to be there.”
But then, just as the lyrics tell us, that’s exactly what happens. They grow, they go through changes, and then, almost overnight, it seems, that same small girl who cried out for help tells you literally to butt out, leave me alone, I will handle this problem on my own. When this happened to me recently, I confess that my reactions ran the gauntlet, starting with surprise, then consternation, anger, frustration, and then, after sleeping on the issue and waking up with a fresh perspective, acceptance and pride at my daughter’s seeming insubordination.
Molly has had a challenging transition from her year in Paris to her senior year back in college. While she loves her classes, is passionate about her thesis, and has a plum job working in the dean’s office, her living situation has been less than ideal. The off-campus apartment, with six separate units and some unknown but loud and enthusiastic partyers, recently produced a police visit. Instead of presuming everyone innocent until proven guilty, every single resident received a notice that they were guilty until proven innocent, which they had to do by means of an interrogation by a school officer.
I was, of course, outraged, at the travesty of justice, and also at the tactics of the investigators who simply decided they would tar everyone with the same guilty brush without due process. I told Molly I did not want her living in that house any more, “It is an arrest waiting to happen,” I declared. I also flexed my financial muscle and told her I would not be paying this month’s rent but would help her find another more savory situation. Her living situation also was less than ideal for other, more complicated reasons, so with the two major strikes, I was ready to have her ditch and run.
That’s when, late that night, we had a fight by text. (This is another new development of the modern communication age. Your children no longer have to talk back to you to your face; they can do it via their phones. Now they have multiple channels to challenge your authority).
I demanded Molly to give me the phone number of one of the parents so I could talk to them — parent to parent, just as I did when she was younger.
“I’m handling it, mom,” she texted.
“Give me the number or I will call the dean’s office and get it,” I threatened.
“What I have going for me is you guys and the stability you give me,” she responded.
And then, the words that will go down in family history, in CAPS:
“STOP MAKING ME CRAZY. BUTT OUT. NOT YOUR PLACE. YOU ARE MAKING IT WORSE.”
I was unfazed. “I need you to move out. That place is an arrest waiting to happen.”
“I’ll deal with that,” said my child. “I’m not going down for something I didn’t do.”
There was more, but you get the idea. We left it that I would hold off taking parental action for the time being, and I would wait for her cue to jump in.
“I’m not going to wait until it’s too late,” I warned.
“Me neither. Know that. Please trust me.” And then, the words that warmed the cockles of my overbearing mother’s heart: “Thank you for everything you do for me.”
I should say that Molly just turned 21 a couple of weeks ago, so in reality, even if I wanted to intercede with the dean, I’m not sure I really could. Moreover, here is the ultimate reality: Your job as a parent is to raise strong, independent kids, who know how to stand up to authority in a respectful way, especially when that authority is wrong, and even when that authority is you, the parent.
Because when they do that, you will know that you have done your job right.
That Olivia Newton-John song sums up my current role with Molly in a way that is spot on — that I’m not going to swoop in and strike when she tells me to back off, but that I’m standing by to catch her if and when she does need me.
“Whenever you feel you need a friend to lean on,
Here I am.
Whenever you call,
You know I’ll be there.”
