Vesta got up early and cabbed to Manhattan. In no time she was at Auntie’s in-home office, the elder up to her elbows in work already. “Auntie, if the offer is still on the table, I’d like to talk about it.” Auntie smiled and hung up the phone, “Sit down, dear. There isn’t much to talk about.”
“Here, I know you like your coffee strong and black…” Auntie looked up and winked at Vesta. They giggled. She poured. “Having no children of my own has afforded me a luxurious and perhaps selfish life. Rather, I have loved being your aunt and your friend. You know I’ve been anxious to get the hell out of this city and take up gin — both gins! The cards and the drinks! Even at my age, I’m sure I could learn.” More giggles.
- This very posh shop offers “e-decorating”! http://www.etsy.com/shop/Blondiesloft
Each of the women in Vesta’s generation had been born to the wrong sister in her mother’s large family. But that meant that each girl had a confidant in the family, and a dear family friend. “You’ll take the furniture and replace it over time. I will retain my rooms on the second floor as long as I am alive. I’ll have Mr. Dow draw up the papers transferring ownership tomorrow, and you tell the girls all about it. We’ll have a big celebratory dinner here. Tomorrow night at 7; don’t be late, dear.” Vesta hoped the other girls didn’t think she was pushy.
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About AngelaLTodd
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.
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