Apache

"It is essentially a flying tank -- 

a helicopter designed to survive heavy attack 

and inflict massive damage.

 It can zero in on specific targets, day or night, even in terrible weather."

I am evidently stupid.  Or so suggests my 12 year-old.  No, the boy doesn’t say it in so many words, but telling me his homework is done when it isn’t does seem to suggest a certain lack of confidence in my ability to check his homework.  He told me his planner was stolen.  He told me he lost his vocabulary book.  He told me he hates English.   Now, these are all things that any rational semi-involved parent would instruct the child to sort out or report or get over. 

The thing is – this is a killer – I work at my kids’ school.  A short walk across the carpool lane will reveal to me a planner in the bottom of a locker that was “clean yesterday,” a vocabulary book under said planner, and an English teacher who – brace yourselves – wants the child to do his homework and then – gasp – bring it to class.  Yes, this child needs to sort things out, but the thing that kills him is that I know what’s happening.  I’m there.

I have worked at my children’s school since the year after we moved south.  Let’s just say that the public education system in our fair state is not up to snuff.  Being in education in the independent school setting has some advantages.  However, helicoptering has never been one of them. Although I have worked at the school my children attend for the past 13 years, I have gone to parent-teacher conferences only when required by the teacher.  I have looked in my older two sons’ lockers a total of maybe three times, and only then when bidden to do so by them.  I went to high school back to school night because I had to: I'm on faculty.  I haven’t checked up on the older two at all.  They have done their work, requested supplies when needed, and gone about their merry way.  My mantra has always been, “I’ve already been in (fill in the child’s current grade), and I don’t want to do it again.”  I’m willing to admit that they probably missed some homework and fell down here and there.  But, overall, they did pretty well left to (mostly) their own devices.

My youngest child is going to be the death of me.  And him.

He inspires helicoptering.  And I hate it.  I love him.  I hate what is happening.  He is near failing nearly every aspect of fifth grade: getting homework done, keeping track of homework, bringing home PE clothes to be laundered – you name it, and he’s struggling.  Or he wants me to think he is.  Before anyone pulls out the oh-but-he’s-in-his-last-year-of-elementary-school pity, let me tell you that fifth grade is middle school for us.

This is the downside of having a parent-teacher: I’m always on the teacher’s side.  Work detail for missed homework?  Dandy.  Lonely lunch for missed work detail?  Sure.  Need him to come in after school for extra help?  No problem.  Before school for organization counseling?  He’ll be there.

I will always side with the teacher.

I will always support my son.

These two things are not mutually exclusive.

So, dearest, youngest child please understand that I didn’t helicopter-parent either of your brothers, and if you insist on driving me to it this year, I’m going to be an Apache helicopter.  With one target.  You.