Storytelling

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So What Exactly Is A Helicopter Parent, Anyway?

October 16, 2012 at 9:38 pm , by 

23 months.

It turns out that several people who read both Part 1 and Part 2 of “Oh Wait, Are We Helicopter Parents?” a few weeks ago had to ask me what a helicopter parent even is.

Basically, it refers to any parent who “hovers over” their child to the point they could be considered to be practicing attachment parenting.

The stereotype would be a parent who when dropping off their child at daycare, creates anxiety in their child by lingering around too long, instead of properly saying goodbye and giving their child confidence they will be okay for the day without their parent there the whole time.

I realize now, I’m definitely not a helicopter parent.

Instead, I’m simply aware that little boys die in accidents at a much higher rate than little girls. Much of my “hovering” has to do with keeping my son safe in parking lots, as I should with a 23 month-old son.

It’s more about risk management and being my son’s bodyguard, necessarily.

When I think of a helicopter parent, I think of someone who freaks out when their child darts away in the middle of a park.

My preconceived idea is that the parent sets such tight parameters on that child that he or she doesn’t know how to act when they are presented with a window of freedom.

I would like to think of myself as the kind of parent who encourages my child to be independent. I want my son to want to explore his world, but yet at the same time have a concept of the real dangers that exist out there.

While we were at the pumpkin patch a couple of weekends ago, my son Jack was excited when he saw the pick “potato sack slide.”

But as we climbed up the stairs and he saw how far down his Mommy was, he began to get scared and started to cry.

Needless to say, we went down the slide together, despite his reservations.

For me, it was a symbolic of how as a parent, I’m there to push him when he needs courage, to inspire him to try new adventures, and to remind him that while I may not being hovering over him, I’m still there keeping him just as safe.

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Why Parenting Is Definitely (Not) The Hardest Job In The World

October 14, 2012 at 10:56 pm , by 

22 months.

Here is our most recent family picture.

There is obvious humor in the fact my wife and I look normal and happy, as our son is reaching away from us and clearly wants out of the frame.

(Also, take notice of the couple in the upper right hand corner apparently embracing while they wait in line for a port-a-potty. Awkward…)

While dozens of people “liked” the picture on Facebook, no one specifically pointed out why they connected with it.

But I think I know why.

It’s because it serves as a somewhat subtle, visual reminder to fellow parents out there:

This is normal. This is good. Enjoy it for all it’s worth.

I think one of the biggest cliches in the world of parenting is this:

“Being a parent is the toughest job in the world, but it’s also the most rewarding.”

Well, I don’t buy that. Two reasons:

First, it seems pretty obvious to me that some of the toughest jobs in the world would include prostitution, coal mining, and truck driving. I mean… right?

Second, being a parent isn’t a job. It’s simply a necessary part of life.

Life itself is tough. I know, personally, I would love have access to my own free psychiatrist just to sort it all out.

But I don’t get that.

For me, I put parenting in a category like marriage. Attempting to be a good husband is not a job. In fact, it’s so much more than that.

Now that I think about it, how insulting it is to consider being married as a job. Instead, it’s a privilege with built-in responsibility and accountability so big that it can’t just be dumbed down to “a job.”

Being a parent is so huge that many moms and dads actually stay home while their spouse goes out to work in the “professional” work force. Because being a parent is that big of a deal.

It’s that time-consuming, that stressful, and that hard to put a salary amount on.

The value of a parent is essentially priceless.

So, no, I don’t think being a parent is the hardest job in the world. If nothing else, because I’m sticking with my weird prostitution answer.

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The Irony Of Teaching Your Kid Not To Use Profanity

October 13, 2012 at 11:09 pm , by 

22 months.

Sometimes I just get in a 1990′s grunge mood.

Last week as I drove my nearly 2 year-old son home from daycare, I was in a somber trance as I let the music of Live’s Throwing Copper album flow through the stereo speakers of my Honda Element.

As I listened to the 8th track of the album, in which the title itself consists a word deemed too obscene to spoken on cable TV, yet it is the normal word for “poop” in most other countries, I realized that in a couple of years, I probably won’t get to listen to whatever I want to in the car anymore; as least not without giving him some lengthly explanation:

“You see, son, that word is abad word. You can’t say it in school or at home because you’ll get in trouble. It means the exact same thing as “poop” but, as a society, we collectively give more negative power to the other word, therefore we’re not supposed to say it.

I know that almost sounds conflicting with what I normally tell you about how we shouldn’t care about what people think about us, but this is an exception. We have to go along with the rules of society on this one.”

Type any “cuss word” in the search box on The Dadabase and you’ll probably come up with no related articles. It’s just not my style.

However, I’m not too worried about the words that society chooses as “inappropriate.” I’m less concerned about any particular words and more focused on the messages we send with all words we use instead; as well as the tone we use when we speak.

As a person whose religion teaches him to loves his neighbor as himself, the challenge for me is to refrain from using language that is judgmental, condescending, prideful, or laced in gossip.

To me, that’s the kind of language that is set on fire by the flames of hell. Not the word “hell” itself.

So as my son grows old enough to understand society’s goofy rules on which words we can and can not say, that’s what I’m going to teach him:

“Don’t say those certain ‘cuss words’ because then you’ll get in trouble. More importantly, let’s focus on the words we can say. Let’s find ways to build people up with our words.”

Granted, my words are no good if I’m not already taking my own advice.

 

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And Now My Son Will Only Have Girls For Friends…

October 11, 2012 at 10:56 pm , by 

22 months.

I had always hoped that my 500th Dadabase post would be about something at least a little bit monumental.

The good news is that in this 500thDadabase article of mine, I do have a milestone to write about in my son Jack’s life so far.

The bad news is, that milestone is that my son’s best (and only) friend who is a boy is moving to Texas at the end of the month, just a few weeks before Jack’s 2nd birthday.

That’s right. Henry, as recently featured in my recent Mall Toddlers post with Jack and Sophie, is bound for the Lone Star State.

It’s a difficult concept to grasp that The Three Musketeers are being split up.

Even stranger is the fact that Jack doesn’t really have any friends that are boys that are his age. He is surrounded by girls!

I wonder if Jack will suffer the same fate as me: I have some of the best guy friends I could imagine. The problem is that most of them don’t even live in the same state as me.

Henry has been a part of Jack’s life since January, which is nearly half of Jack’s lifetime. Not to mention, it was Henry who introduced Jack to Thomas the Train, which Jack is currently consumed with.

Obviously, in the process of Jack and Henry becoming friends, their parents have by default become friends as well.

So this is a big deal; even if more so for me than for Jack.

Of course, knowing that my own memory didn’t start until my 2nd birthday, and many people say that was abnormally soon, I have to assume Jack may not have clear memories of his adventures with Henry.

What if Jack only learns about Henry by reading about him years from now?

In other words, how weird would it be that Jack and Henry’s friendship was not at all recorded in their own minds, but instead only preserved, and for their sake, only existing, because of how I recorded and presented it?

In essence, I become the storyteller, the narrator, and the griot of my son’s life; not simply just for outsiders, but most of all, for my son.

 

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My Toddler Son, The Pony Whisperer/Natural Laxative

October 11, 2012 at 9:27 pm , by 

22 months.

Jack loves animals, especially horses; so when he saw the chance to ride a pony for 5 bucks while at Lucky Ladd Farms this past weekend, he had me pony up the cash.

His gal pal Sophie Culpepper eagerly decided to join him too.

Fortunately, it actually went well!

Jack didn’t even try to get off his pony until it was the end of the ride anyway.

However, my son evidently does have the ability to speak to horses; in particular, he was able to put his pony at such ease that it relieved itself right there in the middle of the ride.

Jack’s horse created a half time show, in other words.

I love how the next day in the car ride back from his day care, Jack randomly started saying, with a dead pan delivery:

“Horse poop. Horse poop.”

An observer in this case might think my son suffers from Coprolalia, an occasional trait of Tourette syndrome, where a person swears involuntarily.

But no, that’s just Jack having flashbacks of good memories of the weekend.

Apparently, the first thing that came to mind was when the ride had to come to a quick intermission, thanks to Jack’s natural effect on the pony.

So yes, I’m happy my son had the opportunity to ride his first pony, but I  think it’s safe to say that all he and I will really remember about it was the horse taking a… load off.