Helicopter Parent or On Auto-Pilot: Who Are You?

Okay, here’s a term that irks me: helicopter parent. You know, the parent the media snickers about, the one who’s supposedly hovering all over his or her precious little progeny, trying to make and keep things perfect all around. It’s not behavior I’m in favor of – by any means. But a part of me resents the insinuation here. Everyone agrees that parents should be involved, and, in fact, when anything bad happens, everyone tsk tsk’s and asks ”But where were the parents and what were they thinking?” in the old blame-the-mom mode. But yet, if you’re too involved, you’re accused of hovering and catch flack for being all over your kid.

In other words: if you’re too involved, you’re a helicopter parent. But if you’re not involved enough, you’re phoning it in (i.e. on auto-pilot).

I freely admit to having spent parts of my parenting career in each camp. As for helicoptering, I sent one of my kids on an overnight school trip with a nametaped nail clipper. On the other auto-pilot extreme, I’m not proud to admit that I also once left one of them waiting for me for hours at an airport after my traveler returned from a summer trip. In my defense, that was ‘cause I totally miscalculated when the plane was supposed to land as the program materials showed it in military time (hey, there’s a reason I’m a writer and not, say, a math teacher).

Anyway, in my humble opinion, the whole over- and under-involved parenting debate is a classic “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” scenario. You just can’t win. So, how about we all agree not to play the blame game?

PS: But before we do, and since I’ve already come clean, what’s the most helicopter or auto-pilot parenting you’ve done or witnessed?

Blogger Brainstorms

It’s 2:42 pm Friday as I write this, embedded in, well, my actual bed/desk with my 85-pound yellow Lab curled up beside me, because baby, it’s COLD out here in the suburbs of New York, a positively balmy 19 degrees. If all goes well, you’ll be reading this post Saturday morning. Notice the “if” in that sentence. Because I woke up today with every intention of writing my Saturday post, Friday being my work-at-home day. But first, life called.

I don’t do mornings without fueling myself with multiple cups of caffeine (only the high test stuff for me). Then I have to do some research about what’s happening news-wise in the world (i.e. Did Rosie and The Donald kiss and make-up while I was busy slacking off (um, sleeping) last night? And how is it that Mary Kate O thinks that it’s her hair that makes her look too skinny? You know, the hard core news topics). Then I field a few frantic voice mails from one of my offspring who needs an emergency infusion of funds. Then it’s time to alphabetize my spices. And Google an old crush. And, well, you know how it goes when you’re procrastinating (we creative types like to call it brainstorming).

By 12:30, I finally push myself onto the treadmill stationed smack dab right in front of the TV, to do a little multi-tasking and watch the new iVillage TV show (which, as I write this, has not yet called me to appear on a guest spot; hello, I am right here…). I watch Molly help make a scrumptious-looking strawberry-and-rhubarb pie. I calculate I could have four bites of it if I stay on the treadmill straight through ‘til “Oprah” airs at 4:00 pm. I decide it isn’t worth it.

After iVillage Live! signs off, I catch a half-hour of some riveting “Lifetime for Women” movie already in progress in which one of the Baldwins acts exceptionally creepy and stalks an innocent suburban mom and basically tries to ruin her life. It is so good/bad that I actually stay on the treadmill for another 15 minutes to see if the Baldwin brother worms his way into the blonde mom’s shredded life by offering to help her gain custody of the little daughter from the marriage he had helped detonate (he does).

And now, having spent some extra time on cardio AND finished this post, I am feeling exceptionally virtuous. So, next stop the kitchen, where I discover we're out of strawberries and rhubarb. No biggie. I'll just substitute the bite-sized Three Musketeers bars and ghost-shaped marshmallow Peeps we have left over from Halloween. (That's what we writer types like to call artistic license.) Oh well, the treadmill isn't going anywhere. But I guess I am – back on it tomorrow.

Idle Thoughts on the Idol

Okay, here goes: my name is Laurie and I am addicted to “American Idol.” Watching it is one of my (no longer secret) guilty pleasures. But really, as far as guilty pleasures go, I can think of lots that are much, much worse.

So yes, it’s Idol time for this blogger. That means blocking out whole sections of my evenings, and feigning important deadlines when it's on (which is a lot) that prevent me from coming to the phone. But unlike some other viewers, though I watch the beginning shows of the auditions in the various cities, something about them makes me cringe.

Please tell me I’m not the only one who doesn’t like watching these beginning audition clip shows. (And yet. I Can't Stop Myself.) Maybe it’s the mom in me (although my friend Marisa doesn’t have kids and she feels the same way), but I hate to see these wannabes – with or without talent – being humiliated on camera (although I do love to see some unassuming candidate come out and knock everyone’s socks off vocally).

So, how does everyone else feel: Do you love or hate the AI audition shows? Am I being too all sensitive and mom-like?

PS: And to add insult to injury, during last week’s auditions, everyone who left the audition room in one city tried to get out the wrong (left) side of the double exit doors. Then Simon or someone else would pipe up, “Other door, sweetheart.” – as if these people hadn’t been humiliated enough. Note to the American Idol producers: how about spending three bucks at Kinko’s and putting up a sign on the correct exit door that says something like “Exit Here” next time around?

Parenting Primer 101

Someone recently asked me to offer up my best advice for newbie parents about to tackle The World’s Toughest Job. Whoa. Talk about pressure. Frankly, I could think of a zillion things I would have done differently – and I mean no offense to my wonderful, fabulously well-mannered, brilliant, and delightful offspring, only to me, their often short-of-the-mark mother. So, after much reflection, here are my top tips for anyone embarking on that 18+ year adventure popularly known as parenting:

* Try to keep the temper tantrums to a minimum. (They just mess up the make-up and embarrass the kids.)

* Always dress yourself before your little mini-me. (He or she will look adorable in any old thing. You will not.)

* Train your kids to volunteer you for paper products only (and not, say, a fully cooked turkey with all the trimmings, as someone with my DNA and last name did) for the Native American feast.

* Refrain from overindulging in gift wrap paper PTA fundraisers, unless your last name is Claus.

* Ditto Girl Scout sales, unless you don’t care that the only remotely thin thing about you will be the mint cookies you inhale.

* Fake urgent incoming cellphone calls on vibrate during any conversation in which the phrase “academically gifted,” “Mandarin for Munchkins,” and/or “naturally talented athlete” crops up.

* Do not attempt to converse, sing along to the radio, or offer any pleasantries other than “Where to?” and “How much do you need?" when chauffeuring your offspring and their pals.

* Above all, remember to laugh. And that with the exception of lactose intolerance, there’s not much that a little Ben & Jerry’s won’t cure.

PS: Okay, help us all out here. What parenting advice do you wish someone had given you?

My Apple Genius Took Pity On Me

Right after I lectured my teenage son about his iPod not being a disposable item, lo and behold, the technology gods paid me back. The other day, just before a long car trip, I tried to turn mine on to see if it needed charging and – nada, zilch, zip. Naturally, I thought it was something I did but my kids assured me that nope, iPods just did that sometimes, and I would have to trek over to the Apple store in the mall for a consult. I vaguely remember them making appointments to bring various pieces of their technology in to be revived there, so I called the local number, was switched to the sub-Continent, and hung on for 22 minutes ‘til a polite young man halfway round the world made an appointment for me with an Apple Genius located 10 minutes from my home. Not an expert. Not an associate. Not a technician. But A Genius.

I hustled over to the mall to receive the sobering diagnosis: yup, my iPod was broken and couldn’t be fixed. The solution? Why, buying a new one of course. My Genius did some fancy math work to determine I wouldn’t have used up the capacity on my current model ‘til my son found lost cell phone #2 (i.e. never) and sold me an itsy bitsy Nano model plus the must-have hard carrying case.

I couldn’t even get my new iPod out of the box (I am not kidding here) so my Genius took pity on me and set the whole thing up, including cutting apart the heavy impenetrable plastic “clamshell” package it came in. So I concede: yes, they are Geniuses and deserving of the capital "G." That established, let me send a shout-out to the whole Genius orchard: please use your considerable collective brainpower to come up with products that last longer than a carton of blueberry yogurt in packaging that doesn't require a blowtorch to open. (Thanks in advance from this cranky consumer.)

So, Who Are “They” Anyway?

This morning my Freshperson headed back to college in New England after winter break. After downright balmy weather here in the Northeast (which we all enjoyed, if a bit uneasily), cold weather has returned with a vengeance – a brisk 27 degrees – and with it came a perfect opportunity for me to obsess about my traveling scholar’s well-being. “They say it’s one of the coldest days of the year,” I warn, urging him to take a scarf (a suggestion he rejects in an instant as “way too dorky”).

Again with the “they.” I find myself constantly invoking “them” as my fallback experts in the parenting game. Of course, in today’s case, “they” could be the weather forecasters. But, who are all these other “they’s” anyway? “They” say you can’t wear white after Labor Day (except this year when “they” say white is the new black, dry cleaning bills be damned). “They” say it’s important to drink eight glasses of water a day. “They” say you shouldn’t do this, or you should do that.

As I beg my son to reconsider the scarf thing (“It’s freezing out, you’ll thank me later”) and he (surprise, surprise) doesn’t budge, it comes to me. Oh my God. It's official. I've become one of "them."

PS: A shout-out to my son: Forget Big Brother…a message from Big Mother: "They" say a ski hat is the new uber-cool way to keep warm. (C’mon, humor me.)

The Getting-Ready-To-Go-Out Tango

This past weekend we had a big party to go to (the invitation said “cocktail attire,” a clue that my typical sweat-pants-and-fleece attire wouldn’t cut it). If there is a clearer illustration of the differences between the sexes, I am hard-pressed to come up with one more so than the whole getting-ready-to-go-out song-and-dance routine. In our house, it looked like this:

Party Called for: 7:00 PM
(Yarnell ETA: 7:45 PM)

5:00 PM
Me: Study up for conversational tidbits on news of day with review of periodicals (People, US Weekly, Star magazine, etc.) while nails dry.
Him: AWOL

5:30 PM
Me: Try on first outfit (tea-length sleeveless black dress).
Him: AWOL

6:00 PM
Me: Try on second outfit alternative (silk black pants with white lace top).
Him: Returns from work out and flops on newly dry cleaned bedspread.

6:15 PM
Me: Try on third outfit alternative (short black lace dress).
Him: Flips through TV channels.

6:25 PM
Me: Discover run in only pair of clean sheer black pantyhose.
Him: Complains about not bring able to wear jeans.

6:30 PM
Me: Shower with fancy schmancy soap lifted from last hotel stayed at and celeb-hawked shampoo and conditioner-du-jour), followed by moisturizing, toning, and cleansing skin, spritzing on some eau de parfum, carefully applying make-up, and drying hair before coaxing it into a “style.”
Him: Showers with water, slivers of leftover soap, and Costco private label shampoo, towel-dries skin and hair, and returns to channel surfing.

7:00 PM
Me: Put first outfit back on. Consider wearing rhinestoned flip-flops before resigning self to sucking it up and stuffing my tender tootsies into pointy high heels. Reach for seldom-used stilettos stored high up in closet and dislodge one that promptly goes into free-fall, impaling my forehead.
Him: Tries (and keeps on) first and only wardrobe choice: a suit.

7:15 PM
Me: Pop two aspirins, select arm candy big enough for my cell phone, and warn Him I absolutely can not fit the car keys in it, too.
Him: Plops back on bed for more channel-flipping.

7:30 PM
In Transit
Me: Obsessively inspect forehead in car mirror and worry that everyone will think stiletto impalment bump really a big zit.
Him: Flips through the radio channels and assures me I look fine.

7:45 PM
Arrive at Destination
Me: Promptly discard high heels and rearrange bangs to camouflage red bump in middle of forehead.
Him: Disappears to bar and goes AWOL.

We meet up an hour later. “Where were you?” I ask. “God, what’s that big lipstick smudge on your forehead?” he replies.

The Son (Occasionally) Rises

The hamper is overflowing, the cupboards are bare, and pieces of Reese’s Peanut Butter cereal dot a trail between the kitchen and the nearest TV. Yes, my Freshperson is back under our roof on Winter Break – a misnomer if there ever was one. A more accurate name would be Winter Month, because for most colleges, “break” runs from mid-December to mid-January, a perfect example of the old educational inverse proportion ratio: the more tuition you pay, the less time your scholar attends classes.

Yes, it’s nice to have him home. But now that he sleeps in ‘til 3:00 PM, I long for the afternoons I couldn’t get him down to nap; these days, we can’t get him up and moving until the sun goes down. Yes, yes, I know he’s recharging his batteries, and worn out from the all-nighters and stress of the end of the semester. He worked (and okay, partied) hard and we are proud of him. But, still.

Today a little past noon he stuck his head out of his lair to complain that the noise from workmen in the garage below was “keeping him up.” Couldn’t they come at a more convenient time (i.e. when he wasn’t sleeping)?

Well, I’ll be certain to make a note of that. The next time something needs fixing during one of his breaks, I’ll schedule the work for midnight to 3:00 AM. That way no one’s precious sleep will be disturbed but mine.

Night Fever, Night Fee-ver

Last night I went into the kitchen at 2 am to get a cold swig of Snapple and was greeted by a disco-ball like sparkly nightlight thing that changed color from turquoise to lime green to fuchsia. (I swear, I felt like I was in a culinary version of "Saturday Night Fever.") Was it all a bad dream? I wish. Actually, my husband had just stocked up at his favorite haunt, Costco. And he came home with a six-pack of these must-have nightlight things, which he had proceeded to plug in all throughout our house.

The five-pound tub of “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter,” which took up valuable real estate in my refrigerator for eighteen months, was one thing. At least that eventually went bad. I’m afraid our new disco nightlights are gonna live forever. Or until they accidentally get tossed in with the recyclables on an especially dark and stormy night...

Grazie For the Great Gizmo

Okay, I’m not ungrateful for the brand new mini-camcorder He got me. It’s just that…I'm technologically-challenged. And saying "just read the instruction manual" doesn't cut it for me.

He presented it with the biggest grin. ‘Remember you wanted this?’ Oh yeah…now it’s coming back to me. This past June, six whole months ago when we had two kids who were graduating, I begged him to go to Costco and get one of these. Graduation festivities came and went but a new fancy schmancy video camera didn’t, so I made do with our former clunky-yet-serviceable camcorder.

So now, in December, it appeared…with no graduation in sight for four more years. Yippee. Thanks so much. Another gizmo, like the teeny digital camera I love the idea of but still can’t figure out how to use. Maybe my personal IT person (my Freshperson)'s gift will be lessons in how to use these high-tech (for moi) gadgets. After he teaches me to Tivo, of course. And turn on the DVD player. And change my ringtone. And…well, you get the idea.

It’s not easy being a technophobe come gift-getting time. (Note to Him for forthcoming gift occasions: Jewelry comes pre-assembled and ready-to-use, no instruction manual required.)

My Wife's Guide to Movies 4 Men: Hubby Guest Blog, Part II

I'm back. And being the ever intelligent man I (think I) am, I believe I have finally figured out my wife (a.k.a. the film Nazi)'s "Guide to Movies 4 Men:"

1) It’s a chick flick. You’ll hate it.

Translation A: It’s too (pick one) hot, cold, or humid to play golf or tennis, shop, or write my blog.
Translation B: I’m going with my friends to the movies because it’s going to take two hours for my nails to dry.
Translation C: Stop whining, you’ll see it when it’s out on DVD.

2) It’s a mockumentary. You’ll hate it.

Translation: You’ll never get the subtle humor in this.
(EDITORIAL COMMENT FROM MOI: He did hate Christopher Guest's "A Mighty Wind" so I went ahead and rented "Waiting for Guffman" when he wasn't home.)

3) I read the book and I really think you’ll hate it.

Translation: My sister is coming to visit today, and she really wants to see this movie without her husband.
(EDITORIAL COMMENT FROM MOI: I did read "Running with Scissors" and knew he would hate the movie and guess what, he came anyway, and did (hate it). I know my customer.)

You see, what’s really not fair is that we guys put it out front, and you ladies don’t. When the football game is on TV, it’s our way of telling you it’s OK to spend the next couple of hours on the phone. (Please not at the mall). But guys can’t always rely on movie titles or even (paid) critics’ reviews to figure out if a particular movie is entertainment we’d like to share with our spouse.

And ladies, I intend to share this with my similarly ostrasized male brethren.

A Real Guy’s Guide to the Reel Thing: Laurie’s Hubby’s Guest Blog

As many of my wife’s loyal readers know, she loves to go to the movies. What you may not know, however, is that she really has bad taste in picking movies that we would want to see together. This utterly unendearing trait became evident early on in our marriage when she “suggested” (a.k.a. unabashedly raved about) a movie she wanted to see called “At Long Last Love” with Cybil Shepherd. And you would be right to wonder how a guy who can’t remember the name or actors in a movie he saw last week could remember this one after more than 25 years. The answer is simple; it was one of the most painful experiences I have had to endure without anesthesia.(EDITORIAL COMMENT FROM MOI: Yes, this is true. I don’t remember why I wanted to see this movie, but I think “They” said it was good. They were wrong. It was awful. And we walked out.)

After many years of scoffing at her suggestions and occasionally making the cardinal husband sin of laughing at her for crying hysterically at some (inane) movie (EDITORIAL COMMENT FROM MOI: It was “Beaches.” I loved it but I was HYSTERICAL and...I didn’t (SOB, SOB) want to leave. Go figure.) she has now banished me to one of her less preferred theater dates. I think I am somewhere between her friends and a screaming infant. This has caused me some angst at times when there was a movie I really wanted to see, and I was told “it’s a chick flick,” knowing that this was her way of saying “I’ll enjoy this more without you.” That worked for “Brokeback Mountain,” and every movie starring Hugh Grant. But when I was the only husband not allowed to see “The Devil Wears Prada,” even though Meryl Streep is one of my favorite actresses, I suspected I had been duped. (EDITORIAL COMMENT FROM MOI: I still maintain he is missing enough metrosexual genes to really enjoy it...but I am making him rent it over Xmas vacation to see.)

Okay, that's enough posting for you-know-who. I know return this channel to moi. Stay tuned in a few days for Part II: My Wife (the movie-Nazi)'s Guide to Movies.