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Top Mom: Flight Log of a Helicopter Mom

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6:00 a.m.
Strength train for endurance. Focus on flabby upper body muscles. Remind self that helicopter parenting is an ultra marathon, not a cakewalk for wimps. 

6:30 a.m.
Fuel up at Starbuck’s on a tall quadruple Espresso Roast, Komodo Dragon Blend—no milk, no sugar, no cup. 

7:00 a.m.
Drill preadolescent kids with calculus and chemistry flashcards over Omega-3 rich, low-fructose breakfasts. Remind them: “Bone up, those AP courses are right around the corner.” 

7:30 a.m. Drop off sweet, attention-challenged male child and intense, snarky female child at middle school with detailed instructions for the entire day. 

8:00 a.m.
Check female child’s “My Space” page. Enter grandiose compliments anonymously to improve her body image and boost core self-esteem. 

8:30 a.m.
Install filter on male child’s laptop so those “naughty thong girls acting wild and wet” Web sites don’t inexplicably pop up again on his favorites list. 

9:01 a.m.
Answer call from whining school principal upset with male child’s “inappropriate” lunchtime behavior. Listen politely, threaten multiple lawsuits and 911 calls to the ACLU and Huff Post. (Make note to confiscate said child’s pocket video camera.) 

9:30 a.m.
Crank up on personal stash of putrid herbal energy supplements since hovering requires continuous, active corrections from the pilot. 

10:00 a.m.
Call male child’s cell phone. Leave firm message that “trying to appreciate the female gender” does not include filming the morbidly obese school librarian straining in the teachers’ lounge and then posting it on “YouTube.” (Geez, what will Harvard think?) 

10:30 a.m.
Drop by schoolyard at snack time and nudge female child, thus aggravating both your eating disorders. “Are you relishing your vegetables? Repeat the mantra: “Remember, broccoli is brain food … and it’s slimming, too.” 

11:00 a.m.
At biweekly appointment, ask therapist to define “hover.” Deny lack of stability ‘til the friggin’ malevolent methane emitting cows come home. 

12:00 noon
Fuel up on iced mocha double double espresso Frappucino Gazebo Blend with cumin sprinkles and whipped cream. Top off with a scrumptious giant cherry apricot scone for extra lift. 

12:30 p.m.
Incessant helicopter din and teeth-rattling vibration grating on already rattled nerves. Get lube job (and mani-pedi) at tacky day spa. Have mechanic sharpen motor blades and check torque tension. 

1:55 p.m.
Ignore slacker husband’s remark, “Why do you think they call it HELLicopter?” 

2:00 p.m.
Do research for female child’s science project on “Hummingbirds and the Physics of Flight.” (You gotta earn those A’s! They don’t grow on trees—especially on our family’s tree.)   

2:45 p.m.
Call female child’s English teacher and berate her for that “B” on the Macbeth essay last week. 

2:55 p.m.
Call male child on cell phone and insist he text message his score on the afternoon’s spelling test now. Excellence waits for no one. 

3:00 p.m.
Call therapist. Demand she clarify “too involved.” Disagree vehemently and vow innocence ‘til Iceland melts off the geothermal map. 

3:15 p.m.
Detect ominous downward spiral at accelerating speed. Panic creeps in.  

3:16 p.m.
Reflect upon therapist’s comment, “Helicopters are very unstable; hovering is like balancing yourself while standing on a large beach ball.” 

3:17 p.m.
Chopper pitches and rolls like a drunken windmill. “Holy F#@*!!!” 

3:18 p.m.
Tear up parent card and toss pilot wings in the trash. 

3:19 p.m.
Prepare for a crash landing as fuel abruptly runs out. View is totally obscured by stress-induced, adrenaline juiced brain fog. 

3:20 p.m.
Collapse at cyclic switch, kiss your asinine aspirations “adieu” as your chopper shakes to a million bits in mid-air. 

3:21 p.m.
Plummet to a sure death of regret and many broken bones—but then land miraculously … in an empty nest.   

3:33p.m.
Vegetate there while deviant male child and dour female child learn to fly on their own two feet—and perhaps some day in the very distant future—elect to conduct a Search and Rescue Mission for you—their “Top Mom.”

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