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My Son Is Adulting. Finally
Confessions of a semi-helicopter Mom.
My son, Blake, would be the first to tell you that I’m not really a helicopter Mom. He might even complain that I’m not motherly enough. That is, on the days I’m not driving him crazy mothering him too much. Or on the days he isn’t driving me crazy. Actually, that’s not a drive, it’s a short leap. For either of us.
You might call him a slow launcher.
He didn’t so much fail to launch, as take a slow, careful run-up to launching. I offered him my helicopter launch pad several times, but he seemed afraid of flight.
The umbilical cord wouldn’t stretch that far.
He moved to Georgetown, Texas and lived in the dorm at Southwestern University. So I moved to Austin, thirty minutes from his university. He was on campus four years, and I was thirty minutes away for two of those. He played basketball in college, and I was always in the stands, digging my fingernails into my palms, yelling, clapping, and on more than one occasion screaming, “That’s my son.” You know, embarrassing him in general, and making him feel good all at the same time. What Moms…
