Esther McCarthy: Does tracking my teenager and his can of cider make me a helicopter parent?
The celebration of Junior Cert exam results can be a tricky one - for students and parents. Pic: iStock
Shhh! Do you hear it? That rhythmic whirring, over a low-pitch hum? It’s the whomp-whomp-whomp of fear of becoming a helicopter parent.
Now that my middle fella has turned 13, I’m the proud mam of two teenagers and one pre-tween. I’m struggling to figure out when you step in and when you feck off out of their business.
It’s hard you guys. A delicate balance act, wobbling along that tightrope of permissions, grin plastered on my haggard face, with too much makeup on.
In my head, I’m a clown in this metaphor, I don’t know why my clapped-out imagination couldn’t stretch to picturing myself svelte and Zendaya-ish circa , instead of Fizbo from but here I am red-nosed, taking one tentative step after another in my massive shoes, just trying to get to the other side, where the kids have made it to 18 without being trafficked or bullied by toxic masculinity groups, or heaven forfend, phished by the mockey-ah An Post.
I’m determined to let the new teenager make his own mistakes and figure out that life doesn’t always go your way.
You didn’t get into the class that all your friends are in? No, I won’t talk to the school about it; it might all be for the best.
You forgot your geography homework? Sorry, I’m not asking for it in the New Mums of First Year WhatsApp.
You left your lunch on the table? I’LL BE THERE IN FIVE MINUTES; NO CHILD OF MINE SHALL STARVE ON THIS DAY. I’m working on it, OK?
He does his own laundry, but I still make his lunch.
I want my precious 13-year-old to know it’s OK to make mistakes, but there are consequences, and hopefully they’ll help him figure out how to manage it all.
Plus he’ll do it in clean underwear. If parents jump in at every bump, trying to fix everything, our kids will reach maturity expecting smooth asphalt, lacking the tools, experience, and resilience to keep going on that rocky road of adulthood.
But of course I want to support him too. It’s a tough time to be 13. I get it.
The 15-year-old is in transition year, so I’m basically sitting this one out, school-wise and domestically.
He’s been putting on his own wash since the Curious Incident of the Pink Soccer Jersey.
But I did have to make a decision about how involved I was going to get in the celebrations of his Junior Cert results night recently.
“I’m not like a regular mom, I’m a COOL mom,” I think smugly, as I offer up my downstairs.
“Nah,” he says, looking around at the mess, and calculating how much housework he’d have to do, “it’s grand, thanks anyway.”
So I agree to buy him three cans of cider and take every opportunity to slip in little nuggets of on-the-lash etiquette.
I pointedly tell him tales of the long line of relatives who didn’t know how to walk the line between craic and chronic alcoholism.
I regale him with the horror stories passed down through generations of my great-grandfather, who drank away all the pubs and property they used to own.
“Look after yourself, stick together, don’t be stupid.” Was I wrong to give him the cans? Maybe. I remember the ridiculous situations my friends and I put ourselves in approaching strangers outside off licences and decide I’d prefer he didn’t.
I ask him where they’ll be and he’s very vague on the details, so the helicopter rotors start whirring a bit, and I ask him would he mind turning on his location in Snapchat.
Up until now, I’ve resisted asking them to do that. I don’t want to normalise being tracked for my kids.
I have to trust them and let them do their thing without micromanaging their avatar that’s popped up in Douglas when they said they were going to Bishopstown.
The likelihood of them being kidnapped isn’t statistically strong enough for me to take away their autonomy... unless it’s a night where thousands of other 15- and 16-year-olds are unleashed along with my kid who has no plan, besides damaging his stomach lining with fermented apple juice.
(Anyone else remember the Grand Parade/Henrys Junior Cert disco of yore? Now that there was somewhere to BE).
When we collected him and his buddies at 11pm, he still had one can left. They had ended up walking aimlessly around the place.
We had good chats in the car, I’ve parked up the helicopter for a bit.
I should add, different kids need different helicopters. There’s not a day goes by that I’m not begging for a photo of the litriú on the third class group.
I have labels on every piece of clothing the youngest fella owns, he cares not for normal sock timings, and we’ve lost not one, not two, but three of his AirUps.
I’m going to need a squadron when he turns 13 . He’ll do it his way, and I’ll hover as much as the little legend will let me.
