I’ve
worked in education for almost two decades. I remember as a youthful looking 30-year-old,
sitting in a staffroom observing the nearly-retired-brigade and thinking, ‘nope,
that will never be me.’ I still think that, but some of us are very good at
self-delusion and for the record, I am still 30 in my head.
As
the mother of four very-close-together children, as in, I managed to pop out
four in under four years with the aid of twins thrown into the middle of the
mix, I made some terrible mistakes. I have no idea how I raised four
independent, globe-trotting, heads-screwed-firmly-on children of my own.
The
credit should probably really go to my husband, who is all of those things, if
I’m honest.
I
had a great mum, I didn’t realise it at the time, but I certainly do now. She
was always there for my sister and me, offering support, encouragement and
boundaries, good advice and on occasion, threats of revenge on our behalf
whenever the situation warranted it. She told us that she loved us lots and
still does, even now that I have my own wrinkly bits and she also told us off.
Regularly. She was scary!
But
what she didn’t do was fight all our battles for us, unless the giants were
incredibly disproportionate, which in my fearless sister’s case was
infrequently. We scrapped with the neighbourhood kids on a regular basis to the
point where we were banned from leaving the garden despite the damage we did to
the flowerbeds with our bicycles (pretend horses) and there were always
consequences. I don’t ever remember my mother sending me into school with a
note that said,
‘My sweet little darling couldn’t do
her homework last night and is late to school because I let her sleep in.’
Whatever!
We
were up and out the door despite the fact that my father was serving with
the British Airforce in the Falklands and we probably could have bunked off in
tears most days with a valid excuse. What’s more, we walked the five miles to school in the rain
because Mum didn’t learn to drive until very late. Mum did two jobs and cycled
between both in the English winter to put food on the table and we appreciated
her.
The
term, ‘Helicopter Mum’ wasn’t even invented.
They
didn’t have time to hover over us, watching our every move.
Imagine
that.
No
mobile phones, no Facebook, no email.
When
you went to school, they expected you to turn up and usually you did, more or
less on time.
...apart
from a few occasions which are perhaps best not remembered and I was still
getting whacked on the backside with the slipper when I was 15, I’ll have you
know!
And
what’s more - I deserved it!
If
you’ve ever stood underneath a helicopter while it’s hovering overhead, then
you’ll know what kind of crap gets whipped up around you. You get whacked with
leaves and bits of rubbish that you wouldn’t ordinarily have known were there.
Because of the sharp, rotating blades kicking it up.
That’s
what you do when you hover over your kids. You stir up crap you didn’t know was
there.
If
they forget their homework, tough. Let them take the punishment.
If
they forget their lunch, oh dear. Nobody except someone with a severe medical
issue ever died from missing one meal. But they won’t forget it tomorrow, will
they?
Why
does the SUV need to be pulled up on the kerb right outside school? Will they
die if they have to walk a few hundred metres? Do their legs fall off after
they’ve done their quota for the week?
Stop
picking up after them and giving them the impression that they’re owed.
The
examination board won’t owe them and their employer definitely won’t.
And
you know what’s worse?
When they turn into somebody nauseatingly awful who
whinges at the slightest thing, guess who gets to carry on putting it all right
in their little insular world?
Yep.
That’s
right.
Lose
the chopper mum. And quickly!
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