Stop the Helicopter Parents
You might want to sit down for this one.
It was the first sunny Friday of the springtime, and the playground was full of children. Preschool had just let out, and twenty tiny bodies descended on the play structure like ants on a picnic. Most of the parents naturally started milling around the perimeter, chit-chatting about weekend plans, keeping a watchful eye. The little bodies scampered and played freely all over the playground, unimpeded by anything, except one large man.
A dad was on his feet running around with the kids, climbing the spiderweb, hopping on the swings. His son was playing with other friends, and didn’t need help– but the dad was on the playground structure nonetheless.
One of the sitting moms sighed and said, “I guess I should get up, too,” and stood to play with her kid. Her child had, up until then, been playing with another girl, but when she saw her friends’ parents playing, she decided hers needed to as well. Before we knew it, the playground was full of adults, with no room to play.
Sometimes I just want to scream at the playground: Hey, grown-ups! SIT DOWN!
When my first child started being mobile, I constantly fussed over her. I felt like I had to be totally engaged with her for every moment she was awake. I tried to make eye contact constantly to solidify our bond. I’d fret about her shoe quality and debated buying her toddler knee pads. I’d play trains or dolls with her before and after work, and take her on long evening walks. It felt like I was always “on.” I couldn’t remember ever having so much devoted adult time as a child.