The Baby Boom generation has perfected the art of "Helicopter Parenting," in which Boomer parents hover over their kids as their constant and unwelcome advocates.
This article documents how our generation -- "the wealthiest and best-educated generation of parents in human history" -- is handling the task of letting go of our kids as they make their way into the increasingly competitive world of college and work.
More and more of us aren't doing so good in the "letting go" department. We're hovering. It starts with books on nurturing the infant brain; moves on to relentless athletic training so the kid can excel at the sport of his or her (or our) choice; then it's resume-crafting consultants who help round out a high school student's activities in ways that will get the attention of top colleges; and we top it off by tracking our kids with technology. A survey of Middlebury College freshmen found that they had an average of "10.41 communications per week over cell phone, e-mail, Instant Messenger, dorm phone, text messaging and postal mail." This isn't unfamiliar: Oldest Daughter was in near-constant touch in her first, unhappy weeks away from home. As she got settled in, contact decreased. There was the occasional last-minute plea to read a paper, look for a piece of clothing in her closet or question about credit-card balances; that was it.
I'm thinking about this because Oldest Daughter will be home later this week, having completed her freshman year. She called me, distraught, earlier in the week, because she'd gotten what she thought was an unfairly low grade in one class. We discussed how it happened, how her perception differed from the teacher's, what she should do about it and to whom she should communicate.
Suffice it to say that Oldest Daughter showed an early talent for self-advocacy. She is now learning the finer points of that art, which she practices by seeking parental advice, devising her own plan, and wading into battle solo.
And then there's Middle Daughter. She'll call from a gas station and ask how to check the air in the tires. Or she'll call on her way downtown, and use us her own personal Triple-A Motor Club, asking how traffic is, and the best route to a specific address. Earlier in the week, she put some frozen waffles in the toaster oven. She asked me whether the toaster should be set on "Toast" or "Broil." Then she needed my help opening the bottle of syrup. Her transition to independence might be a little more -- uh -- colorful -- than her older sister's.
On the other hand, she's a true academic star: self-motivated, intellectually curious, a really good writer, unafraid to ask questions when she doesn't understand something.
But I wonder: what sort of job are we doing, the One True Wife and I? The girls have inherited their mother's high spirit and their birth-father's sharp mind. I'm just never sure how much help is enough, how much is too much, and how much is just plain wrong-headed. Oldest Daughter was always confident in her abilities. She worked as hard as she needed to, and reserved the rest of her energy for her social life. She worked totally independently on her college applications, and, although she came to regret some of her actions and inactions, she still wound up at a place that's right for her. Middle Daughter needs, and welcomes, more guidance. But that's life, right?
With Gabe, we face a different challenge: he is consumed by athletics. In the past year he has played on travel soccer, basketball and baseball teams. He also takes tennis lessons in a class with 12-year-olds (he's 10). The older he gets, the more demanding both work and sports will become. I can't figure out why we place such a premium on athletics, on the one hand; on the other hand -- he loves playing, he loves most of the kids he plays with; it keeps him in shape and gives him something to dream about.
He has so far resisted my urging to take pitching or hitting lessons to sharpen his skills in baseball, his one true love. If I were any more insistent, would I be guilty of Helicopter Parenting? Or would I be doing my job as a parent, helping him realize that being really good at something demands hard work?
Thanks to the girls, I know the drill: soon enough, distractions will be legion. Soon enough, his life will be a mystery to me. I won't be able to help with any homework except the stuff that requires writing skills. He'll have a cell phone, which will ring and beep and burp at all hours of the day and night. Earnest inquiries about his mental and physical state will be answered in monosyllables (whereas now they're answered with non-sequiturs, as in, Me: "Hi, Gabe! How as your day?" Gabe: "Hot dog.").
And while, if all goes well, he'll grow up, move out and move on, I'll always wonder: Did I hover too much, or not enough? I love him with all my heart.
How much does that count for?
--T.A.
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