One of my previous best friends, in the middle of a massive month-long rant by text and email, about my son, told me, it was my fault Jackson turned out like he did, because I’m a ‘helicopter mum.’ She was right about the helicopter mum, but she was not right about my son.
What was interesting was that I wasn’t upset about the accusation itself, but how she made it sound like such a dirty word. I wondered how she could dare to neatly dismiss my entire identity and Jackson’s under that one label. My existence came down to my parenting style, which made my son ‘everything that was wrong in society today.’
Was I overly controlling with Jackson – no. Some of the things I’m proud of the most, are Jackson’s resilience and his kindness. Was I overly involved – yes. The problem with our vastly differing opinions, I didn’t feel involvement was the same as control.
Over time, I’ve come to see that ‘helicopter mum’ says more about the person using it than the person it’s aimed at. It’s a shorthand for discomfort — for people who don’t like to see mothers taking up space, paying attention, or caring too visibly. At least, from her month-long rant, that’s the clear message I got.
The truth is, I hovered because I cared. Because I knew what it felt like to be left to fend for myself, and I wanted something different for Jackson. I wanted him to know that someone was in his corner — not to fight his battles for him, but to remind him he didn’t have to fight them alone.
That doesn’t fit the picture my ex-friend painted, the overbearing mother who crushes her child’s independence. Jackson has always had his own mind — sometimes to my frustration, often to my admiration. He’s kind. He’s funny. He’s resilient. He’s stubborn. He’s impressive at setting boundaries. Those are not the traits of someone raised under a smothering cloud.
What’s interesting is how that friendship ended up revealing more about control than my parenting ever did. Her anger, her dissection of my ‘faults,’ was its own kind of helicoptering — over my life, my choices, my child. And when I stopped engaging, the silence that followed was the clearest sign that she needed me to stay small to feel right.
After 15 years in each other’s lives, I then saw what I knew, but never admitted, she, herself was a helicopter wife.
It made sense, suddenly. The need to manage, to hover, to control every outcome — it wasn’t just something she accused others of, it was how she moved through the world.
It was a world I wanted no part of.
writerunblockedrepublic 
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