Velma realized she was exhausted. The traveling, the city party, the exciting dream of buying a little New York flat… she didn’t feel retired at all! She grabbed her afghan and retreated to the porch. It was sunny, warm, and silent. She settled happily into the rocker and pulled out her current project. Then she closed her eyes and listened to the birds, the slight creak of floorboards as she rocked, and something that sounded like rabbits in the garden. The sun warmed her face and she smiled. She smelled the warm blossoms. She spent the whole day thus, crocheting.
By dinner, Velma had finished a gorgeous pineapple doily — in Scarlett’s signature color. She looked down at her handiwork and felt deeply satisfied. Scarlett would love it.
I am queen of the helicopter parents. But there are enough of us that we are becoming a social problem. Here’s my story.
Thing 1 was coming, they couldn’t stop him, it was only 24 weeks and 3 days. Someone asked: should we try to save him? Well, yes. Yes! Ten days later, a team of doctors closed the door behind us to explain brain bleeds, sepsis, meningitis. Shall we pull the plug? Well, no. No!
Babydaddy laid hands on him every day, massaged him when he was ready. For the three months he was in intensive care, and the three weeks at an intermediate hospital, I would get up in the night and pump breast milk, thinking about my baby across town. Babydaddy delivered it every morning, earning the name “milkman.” It was funny.
We had every therapy going for as long as possible: early intervention, the intermediate unit, private therapies. Terms multiplied: sensory processing dysfunction, sensory integration problems, orally defensive, auditory sensitivities, comprehensive developmental delay, cognitive function impairment, retinopathy of prematurity. He did occupational therapy, physical therapy, speech therapy, play therapy; we consulted with a neurologist, school psychologist, wraparound service provider, developmental specialist. He worked with an occupational therapist for a year and a half to tolerate teeth and hair brushing.
Not surprisingly, parenting didn’t feel natural. I learned to read to my baby watching Phyllis, our physical therapist. Voices, commentary, labeling colors, counting… she was very good! Merging professional research skills with my genetic propensity for silliness (mom was class clown, dad’s distantly related to Lucille Ball), my mothering style came together. Eventually. But I still channel Phyllis on occasion.
Thing 2 was full term. They are complete opposites; she is a sensory seeker with a wild sense of adventure and an inventive sense of fashion. Keeping them both busy and happy is an exasperating and sweet challenge. I still believe that every day can be fun and educational while reinforcing kids' boundaries. I’m on a mission to save us helicopter parents from ourselves. No more bubble wrapped kids and guilty parents. Let’s teach them coping skills. Let’s get fun.
I love the painting, and the crochet is wonderful too. Nice post. 🙂
Thanks, hon. The painting made me realize that Velma needed a rest! He does have a lovely relaxing shop, too. Like a wee vacation without leaving my desk! Must save up for one of his inspiring paintings.