Helicopter or Bust?

So I’m sitting here watching my kiddo figure out how a number puzzle of orange 1,2,3-shaped plastic fits into the 1,2,3-shaped holes…

So I’m sitting here watching my kiddo push around a wooden toy truck under foot in the kitchen, as he makes vroom noises with his mouth…

So I’m sitting here watching my kiddo navigate an iPad and/or iPhone better than I can, watching the Point Pleasant Police Department sketch on Jimmy Fallon for the millionth time…

So I’m standing here watching my kiddo run around a football field with his family and friends at the annual Mudbowl game on New Years Day. Laughing, then crying because he fell, then laughing as he scrapes himself off the frozen ground and continues to chase chaos as a player of the game in amongst the adults…

So I’m sitting here enjoying a coffee and watching my kiddo run around the McDonald’s Play Place before swimming lessons, babbling to other children, lightly tapping an arm or a chest to instigate a game of tag, returning to the table only to have a bite of a Chicken McNugget before he scampers away again to explore…

And through all these activities, I’m also staring at the 2 stitches he recently acquired when he decided to battle a bed frame over Christmas at the mountain, and lost…

…shooting down an icy mountain slide in a tube unrestrained in my lap with no helmet, no problem… Bed frame? Game over.

Which one of these events made you gasp internally (externally?) as a parent? 

Playing with plastic? Playing underfoot in the kitchen? Eating McDonalds? Playing independently in a play centre? Watching videos on an iPad? Playing football with adults in the cold? Winter sports without a helmet? The bed frame incident and the stitches that followed? 

All of the above?

Me too.

I argue with myself every day making choices as a parent. 

Choosing my battles with a high energy toddler who tantrums often. 

Choosing to save my energy. 

Choosing survival and happiness over perfection.

I’ve learned over the couple years this small person has been in existence that I’m not part of the helicopter parent group, nor do I feel it necessary to judge the parents who are. Sure, they cramp my style sometimes at the playground with their hairy eyeballs, but that’s just a day here and there. No big.

Through trial and error, I’ve decided my role in my kid’s life is to be the chick with the landing lights at the airport…maybe sometimes the broad at the control tower when stuff gets real. My little dude, however, needs to pilot his own helicopter.

What this means is my kid has A LOT of learning moments:

-climbing on a slippery surface in sock feet means I need extraordinary balancing skills to accomplish the mission. Still attempting success.

-trying the stairs without holding the railing is not a good idea as a top heavy child.

-pushing too hard at the playground means other kids won’t want to play with me.

-if my parents’ faces don’t look worried, then what I’m doing is okay.

The list could go on and on, but you get the idea.

Is it difficult to watch my son fall at the playground while he’s learning his body’s abilities? Totally.

Does it suck to hold him down while the doctor stitches up a fresh wound in his forehead? Oh yeah.

Is it hilarious listening to him babble to other children to ask them to play? And then explain his name is Jimmy Fallon? Uh huh.

It’s difficult, sucky, and hilarious to watch him grow into a little person.

What I’m saying is, whatever your style as a parent, you’re doing a good job. There will always be that person who judges your decisions, or questions your choices, or gossips with other parents about you. Ignore that garbage. Smart people talk about ideas and solutions, not about what your child ate for lunch.
I think it’s important to support each other as parents regardless of differing choices. Parent Wars are so 2012…and also so ridiculous. Choose community.

You can do this parent thing, I believe in you.

Excuse me a moment, my child is asking if he can make a phone call to Jimmy Fallon…again.

Yours truly,

Fumbling Mom