So there’s a new thing in parenting now, that’s topping “helicopter parenting”. It’s called “lawnmower parenting”. Have you heard of it? Here’s an article.
To sum it up in simple terms, lawnmower parenting means smoothing the way for your kids to make things easier for them to the point of never letting them struggle with anything.
Now I’ve read a lot of parenting books in my futile attempts to understand the most complicated role on the planet. And I worked for many years in education. So I totally get the necessity of struggle. I completely understand how important it is for kids to have to work at something, to learn how to come back from failures, to develop grit, and ultimately to achieve the kind of pride that only comes from a hard-won victory. I totally get it.
Aaaaaaaaand, I also totally get the impulse to be a lawnmower parent.
That’s right. I admit it. Sometimes, all I want to do is be a full-blown helicopter lawn mower mama.
It’s not that my kids need me to be. They don’t. This impulse is born completely from my own discomfort. No one warned me how GUT WRENCHING parenting is, you guys. It is a non-stop parade of worry and anxiety and stress and feelings through a heart that’s already strained to capacity with love for these tiny little humans. Wine can only do so much, okay?
This morning alone I already feel like I’ve been through a feelings blizzard without a coat. And it’s just a regular old Wednesday. First, I take the three year old to preschool. She’s doing great with this still-new adventure. But it’s still new enough that her lip quivers just a little and her voice shakes just a bit when I kiss her goodbye. But I kiss her goodbye and walk away anyway.
After preschool, she’s playing with her toys and the plastic ladder detaches from the plastic slide. She’s trying to put it back together and her little fingers just can’t quite manage the fine motor coordination required. I want so badly to step in and help her that for a second it makes me physically uncomfortable in my stomach. But I don’t. I let her work at it until she gets it.
After lunch, she’s playing with the camera on my phone, waving to herself. Then suddenly she’s saying to the camera, “Hi! I’m Harper. I can be your friend.” My shy, sweet, nervous little toddler, practicing making friends, which let’s be honest, can be terrifying for a grown up.
These are examples from one half of one day with one child. This isn’t even the hardest stuff. This doesn’t include navigating actual nerve-wracking things like taking them to a dentist, watching them perform on a big stage in front of an audience, or wondering if anyone’s going to show up to their birthday party. Or sending them into surgery, handing them the keys, dropping them at college.
Growing up is hard, but so is watching people you love grow up. I totally get why I need to let them struggle and work and find their way.
But I also totally get the impulse to smooth the way. If for no other reason than to make it easier for myself to watch.