Vying for title of worst American mom and worst French dad

After the tragic events of the past two weeks in Paris, it feels good to lighten up which is what I did this morning when reading an article about a “world’s worst mom” http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2015/01/19/advice-from-americas-worst-mom/?_r=0.

The mom in question is Lenore Skenazy, a New York mom of two, who earned the title after reporting in a newspaper column that she had allowed her youngest son, then age nine, to take the subway alone. The poor lady was so raked across the coals – she was even threatened with an arrest for child endangerment – it’s lucky she’s alive to tell her tale of being a “worst mom” and counsel parents who won’t let their kids be kids.

I immediately identified with Lenore. When our oldest son, B, was ten years old, his father had the bright idea of having him cross all of Paris on the metro – alone – to visit him in his office at the Tour Montparnasse (metro, elevators!) before going on to an activity vaguely in that neighborhood. The total trip involved several complicated changes and I admit that, while I’m laughing now, I was anxious at the time.

“He could get attacked! Kidnapped! Or worse! ” I remember yelling when I got wind of the idea. “Mais non!” my husband smiled as if he knew something I didn’t. In the end, Mr. Ten-Year-Old did indeed cross town all by his little self, my husband was very proud to introduce him to his co-workers (good thing there was someone to introduce, I muttered), and no harm done other than in my wild imagination.

Little did I know, but that was just the beginning. When Mr. B was a teen-ager, he would come home at ungodly hours and you know what? His Dad would FALL FAST ASLEEP while my eyes were stuck open until I heard the door click and his footsteps. Then I slept (a GOOD MOM would have at least bawled him out when he got home – I was simply relieved).

D, his little brother, if anything, was even worse. This was in the ancient days before cell phones and when I brazenly suggested that we might ASK HIM FOR THE PHONE NUMBER of the place or places he was supposed to be, his dad and older brother looked at me like I was certifiable.

I was worried for sure (as in biting my nails to the quick worried), but my husband wasn’t and I figured this was a guy thing. Eureka – a guy thing. OK, I thought, so let them work it out. I swallowed real hard and decided to let these boys be boys. Definitely world’s worst mom material.

We parents always feel guilty. To this day I regret that I was on radar in the morning and never fixed a proper breakfast for our two offspring. I (we) never woke them up for school either. If they couldn’t haul their bods out of bed, well, they’d be late and have to suffer the consequences. I (we) didn’t help them with their homework either. They were, fortunately, autonomous and if they got a bad grade, well, it was their bad grade. (same for good).

Helicopter parents we were not.

In my case, this was because I grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone so if you wanted to get away, you just took your bike and rode as far as you wanted. Total freedom! Little risk of getting kidnapped since everyone was watching and would report exactly where you were to your parents (same for being sassy or not smiling at a grown-up – you’d hear about that when you got home, believe me).

In my husband’s case, once again, and I don’t care if this sounds macho, he was a guy. Guys were supposed to get into scrapes, stay out late, scare the devil out of their parents. They weren’t supposed to be protected and coddled. Fall off your bike? So get up and try again, already! My husband’s father was very strict (as in children could not speak at the table unless spoken to – isn’t that WONDERFUL?!!) but he had incredible indulgence when it came to normal kid screw-ups. My favorite story is when Philippe was about eight and went to a field of pumpkins and carved his name on every single one of them. When the pumpkins grew and grew so did his name (duh). When the irate pumpkin owner came to see le père Rochefort, he apologized and paid for the damaged crop, but had a hard time keeping a straight face. Kids will be kids!

When I read about helicopter parents, all I can do is shake my head with pity for their poor children. It’s important to dream, to do nothing, to NOT have play dates, to not worry if you’ll go to Harvard. When I was a kid growing up in my midwestern town of 5000, my main activities were l) getting on my bike and 2) taking daily trips to the public library to find books, curl up in a chair, and transport myself far far away to lands I could see only in my imagination, 3) spending time with my friends having a good time – period. We had activities but believe me, we didn’t know the meaning of the word “over scheduled”. (Oh, yes, there was ONE girl in town who was an obsessively perfect student whose parents never let her waste a minute; she would memorize Latin words while brushing her teeth and we thought she was really weird).

Oh, by the way, our sons, who gave me more grey hairs than I can count, were excellent students and what I am most proud of is that what they did they did on their own. They grew up to be fine young men and now have children of their own who, I am sure, will give them the kind of nightmares they gave us. Somehow, I have the feeling that they’ll be watchful and responsible but not “helicopter”. How could they be with the parents they had?

So anyway, do Philippe and I get nominated for world’s worst mom and dad?

Gee, I hope so.