Some people say I over- parent and that I have a hard time cutting the umbilical cord. To those people I say, “Shut your pie hole!” “I prefer to call it ‘nurturing’, thank you very much”. Case in point: Last week, our new first born texted me from university to say he was sick and coming home for a few days. I responded as any normal mother would: Mommy’s on her way. I’ll be there shortly.
When I called my husband to tell him our son was sick and coming home, he tried to contain his excitement concern and said, “I’m renting a helicopter.” While he flew 32 km across the sky to airlift our flu-riddled boy, I raced to the pharmacy and stocked up on one million dollars worth of Sinutab, Neo-Citron, and wrinkle-softening serum Advil to discover we had them in spades at home. Next, I sold my body car to offset the helicopter and drug fees. It happens.
The minute our boy dragged himself through the front door, I grabbed a stepladder so I could reach his forehead to check for a fever. Sure enough, he was burning up and that could only mean one thing: for the next few days I was going to be in my element! I set to work fluffing pillows, administering narcotics, and warming up his ba-ba (bottle) room. He seemed a little hungry so I made his favourite comfort food: strained peaches grilled cheese. While he dozed off I read Good Night, Moon to him about homeopathic decongestants on the Internet. There was no doubt I needed to seek professional help nurture. Sue me.
I knew after a few days he’d be leaving when finally he slept all night, hacked up a mucous ball, and said, “See ya”. I sent him off with a suitcase full of pharmaceuticals, clean clothes, and a framed photo of me some vitamins. After he left without a backward glance, I disinfected the place, changed his sheets, and lay down in the driveway screaming “You need me!” texted him eight times. Nothing unusual so far…
I’m sick of people setting up interventions for me judging me. They need to look at themselves for a change. I mean, if their idea of over- parenting is nursing your teenager back to health; getting extra air bags installed in his car; and worrying he’ll trip on his laces about him then by all means sign me up for Over-Parenters Anonymous. Honestly!! There. Rant over. I have bibs to fold things to do.