Gabe Has an Idea

I am doing my best not to be a helicopter parent. How well I'm doing, I suppose, probably depends on what your definition is. I've heard that term used to describe parents who swoop in whenever anything dangerous presents itself, grabbing up the child and cuddling after the smallest of bumps and bruises. I've also heard the term used to describe parents who hover over their children, constantly ruling over their lives and micromanaging them.

Let me tackle the second definition first--begging the question, why didn't I make it the first definition instead of the second, which is a valid question that points to an obvious lack of clarity and forethought on my part. Suck it.

In social situations, I have to admit that I am a helicopter parent. Well, maybe not in the micromanaging sense, as such, but I certainly hover around my kids, eager to keep them out of everyone else's hair as best I can. I know that I overdo it somewhat in this sense, but, being someone who is not overly fond of other people's kids, I naturally assume that other people don't want my kids yelling at each other and jumping all over everything and everyone. I grew up in a "kids should be seen and not heard" world, and that world seems more and more perfect in its serenity and calm each additional year that I have small children. So, yeah, I helicopter around them in social situations.

But in the first sense, the swooping in to keep them out of danger sense, not so much. In addition to not really liking kids all that much, I'm also not a fan of crying (who was it that put me in charge of kids again? Sounds like I'm about the worst person in the world for the job). I don't cry. Ever. I did growing up. Then one day I guess I just stopped, and I haven't been able to start again ever since. Not that I really WANT to cry--I don't. Crying is a messy waste of time. All that wet and snot and slobber and noise and blurred vision and vulnerability? No thanks. But I rather feel like I OUGHT to cry. It's what the sensitive guys do these days, right? But, try as I might, I can squeeze sweat out of my eye holes. It makes me sad. Just not sad enough to cry.

And, to my way of thinking, the best way to reduce the amount of crying that goes on in our house is to not encourage it. Big ouchies, sure. Those should be cried over. But anything minor--and I consider anything that isn't bleeding or includes a body part pointing in the wrong direction as a major symptom to be minor--is met with a "Can you still use it? Is blood getting on the carpet? Then shake it off." Most of the time, this borderline callous approach is met with even more furious crying and an insistence that I attend to the perceived injury with haste, sympathy, and care. But, from time to time, they actually DO shake it off and go about their business.

Well, Norah sometimes does, anyway. Gabe almost always does now, unless he's really tired. I can usually tell when Gabe needs a nap or to go to bed by how much he whines when he hurts himself. When a bonk that didn't bother him the least when he did it or throughout the day all of a sudden becomes a major issue, then it's time for bed. Otherwise, he's developing into quite the indestructible little guy, and I'd like to think that my shake-it-off attitude has helped make him that way.

But he might just BE that way, because I'm sure not having a lot of luck with Norah. Maybe it's because she's a girl and girls are just . . . well . . . pussies. EVERYTHING is an ordeal with her. Or maybe it's just because she's two and wants my undivided attention all the time no matter what else is going on around us. The kitchen is on fire, ninjas are jumping in through the shattered windows, and a tornado that giant robots created is savaging the entire town. Norah catches a foot on the edge of the carpet and falls on her knee, and THAT, to her mind, is the lead story. Kids and their priorities, I swear.

Anyway, part of the whole shaking it off philosophy is to actually let them get some banging up in the process. It's tough to teach them to deal with their own minor discomforts if they never suffer any minor discomforts. So I try to take a measured approach to my interventions when they are playing. Crawling head first down the stairs? Yeah, that's not going to fly (I'm pretty sure my kids will be permanently and irrevocably terrified of stairs their entire lives with how often I tell them to "take the stairs seriously" and "never play on them or you'll fall down, break your neck, and never be able to walk again"). Messing around near my power tools? Huh uh. Testing the boundaries to see if you can sneak into the front yard and play by the road? Inside, suckers!

However, if the possible damage that could be done is relatively minor, and the chance of success is low, many times I will just give a warning/prediction and see where nature and gravity take them.

And, every once in awhile, I let something that is truly a bad idea slide, just to see where it goes.

Today was one of those days.

Well, really, it wasn't that I let it slide so much as I didn't see it happening during the brainstorming session and decided not to step in once it had reached the point of implementation. Gabe had gotten to the point where he was trying out his bright idea anyway, so I grabbed the camera and prepared for the outcome.

Which, I should mention, never came, so I guess I was justified in letting him play it out since nothing bad came of it. Not that I need to justify my bad parenting. Bad parenting is my right as an American, dammit!

As I said, I missed his preparation as I was pulling the nails out of a piece of recycled lumber to use in their playhouse. But they had been quiet for a few minutes, which invariably means that trouble is soon to follow. And, when I went to check on them, this is what I found. A rocking horse on a porch swing. I'm pretty sure Norah just wanted to stay close so she could participate in the aftermath. She hates it when Gabe hurts himself, but I think she also likes it because she gets to use it as an excuse to scream and cry in response to him screaming and crying.

Nothing bad came of it. However, I did still get to say, "Shake it off" to Norah right after I turned off the camera. And, really, how is it that we live to adulthood? Especially boys. Defies all explanation.