A Helicopter Parent is defined as “a parent who takes an overprotective or excessive interest in the life of their child or children” and I’m almost positive that in a visual dictionary, there would be several photos of my mother (pictured above) in various states of distress over the whereabouts, actions, and well being of my brother and I. In her defense, I’ve given her reasons a plenty to hover, so in honor of her 35th* birthday tomorrow, I’d like to reflect back on some of the incidents that put her into the Helicopter Hall of Fame.
When I was a toddler, my dad’s job uprooted my mother from the only life she had ever known in the rough and tumble town of Greenwich, Connecticut, dropping her straight into the middle of Georgia (to put this into perspective, the town we moved to is commonly referred to as the “buckle” of the Bible Belt), and to say she experienced “culture shock” is hands down the biggest understatement in modern history. About two months into her immersion into all things deep fried, humid, and racist, she found out she was expecting Jesus Christ Jr, my younger brother, who would come to be known by the (completely non pretentious name) James Gordon Bennett V. At this point, my mother and I did everything together, my dad was working all the time, and neither of us had many anything resembling a friend quite yet, so we were pretty much the adult/toddler version of Thelma and Louise (-ish). Fast forward to July 1993, Josephine is almost 8 months pregnant with my brother, it’s hot, and I’m bored AF, so she decides to take me to a McDonald’s playground to burn off some steam. We’re doing our thing, she’s hanging out, keeping an eye on me crawling around the play place, going down the slide, probably actively worrying about what strain of hepatitis I was contracting, you know, the usual. She’s quick to notice that I haven’t come down the slide “for awhile” (so like, 30 seconds, tops) but as she stands up to look for me (and the pedophile I’m sure she assumed had taken me), she hears me crying at the top of the slide, and her blades start turning. She calls my name, at which point she overhears another child say “I’m kicking her” and it’s all over. Preggers McGee proceeds to crawl halfway up the slide, get all up in this girl’s face, and says “and if you keep kicking her, I’m going to come up there and kick you so hard, you won’t ever forget it.” Ice cold.
The year is 2002, I’m 13 and so painfully awkward (both physically and otherwise) that to this day, I still get PTSD flashbacks when someone mentions AIM or I get a whiff of Abercrombie & Fitch cologne. The big thing to do when I was in middle school was to “go to the movies” on Friday nights, and the even cooler thing to do was not actually go to a movie, but instead loiter around the neighboring grocery store/Sonic drive in. Everyone else’s parents were cool with dropping their kids off around 7, and picking them up a few hours later, but my mom? Hell to the no, she wanted details; what was I seeing? (so she could google the length and pick me up exactly when it ended) who was going? did she know them? etc. I made plans to “go to the movies” with my friends one Friday, and excitedly told my mom about them as I hopped into her mini van after school, but she wasn’t here for it. Conveniently, the topic of oral sex was a HOT one when I was in middle school, and one of very great concern for my mom. I feel like its relevant to note that at this point in my life, nobody of any gender, sexuality, etc wanted to even hold my sweaty little hand, let alone put their genitals anywhere near me, but, whatever. To make a long story short, my mother ended up being my date to said movie, sat behind me and the group of people I was so desperately trying to impress, keeping a watchful eye for any stray genitalia that might fly into my mouth, and making sure that I had a plethora of (extremely unneeded) assistance in being as socially awkward as possible.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve given her plenty of reasons to worry, especially in my later years; there was that “incident” in Atlantic City where I misplaced my phone and was “a little less than sober,” as well as the time I was stumbling around East Harlem late at night with a red wine stain on my shirt, and very little clue to where I actually was, but hey, who hasn’t been there?!*
Now that I’ve gotten a little bit older and slightly less idiotic, she’s loosened up a little bit, and by that I mean, she no longer obsessively texts me when she looks on “Find My Friends” and sees that I’m somewhere other than work or home. While my mother having the ability to watch my every move via her phone (thanks Apple!) may not seem like it’s her allowing me to spread my (old ass, 26 year old) wings, for her, it’s progress, and I’ll take it.
*55th
*most people with at least a partially intact brain stem