Being accused of being a helicopter mother (one who perpetually hovers) is irritating beyond words and doubly so when you know that it’s true. I prefer to think of myself as more of a Millennium Falcon kind of mom who swoops in to save the day with swagger and a tall hairy guy by my side. In my version, the hairy copilot is my husband, we don’t ever have to hide out in a giant trash compactor, and my kid refrains from delivering me a swift death a few years down the road.
Earlier today I was walking through the house and heard a high pitched “cheep cheep cheep!” out one of the back windows. Alarmed at the sound of distress, I rushed over to look and confirmed that there was a baby bird flailing around one of the plants in my garden. What was I to do? I hadn’t hunted for worms and grubs since the local Wal-Mart had opened, and despite my newly acquired upper arm wings, I had yet to master the fine art of flying. I’m not a licensed ornithologist (thank heavens because I’m sure that people would comment on that ID photo as well), but extensive reading has led me to suspect that my inability to fly may have something to do with the combined effects of gravity and my being a human. So I stood there worrying immensely for three whole seconds.
And then the mama bird made her appearance. She looked about as worried as Snoop Dogg in a smoke shop. That bird was chill fo’ shizzle. She dropped off a bug and headed right back out. Immediately thereafter the chick checked himself (before he wrecked himself) and got situated on a branch.
The baby bird was fine. He was fine the whole damn time! He was just testing out something new, and, unsurprisingly, it was unnerving for the little guy.
I keep replaying that scene in my mind and find myself heavily contemplating the clear lesson with respect to my own parenting choices. I have come to the only logical conclusion one can reach after experiencing such a simple yet profound occurrence. I’m going to have to hire the mama bird to raise my children as soon as she boots her bird kid out for good. Between the two of us, it is obvious that she is the only mother that has figured this parenting thing out.
I, on the other hand, am immeasurably less chillax about my own children and their attempts to spread their wings. Every inch of my soul wants for them to take flight, but it often feels like I’m screaming “Fly fly fly!!” while maintaining a death grip on their ankles whenever they attempt to do so. They say, “I want to do XYZ,” and my immediate reaction is to steer them back toward ABC in an attempt to protect them from potential disappointment. The bitter irony is that their efforts are rewarded with disappointment right out of the gate, because I never really allowed them to try.
So as I said previously, I’m going to have to hire the bird mom. Or maybe…just maybe…I can learn a little something from the wisdom I saw today and give my own little chicks a chance to spread their wings while I release my grip (veeeery sloooowly). Perhaps I can tie a string to their ankles and let it out millimeter by millimeter (like kid kites). Clearly I don’t have the details worked out. I just know that my kids are ready to soar, and I need to summon the strength within myself to allow them to do it.
***MoJo***
Momentum of Joy 