Most parents are scared to let their children fail. After all, no one wants a child to feel the cold sting of embarrassment or the torment of loss. Therefore, preventing failure is exactly what our culture attempts to do by installing rubberized cocoons and calling them playgrounds, and forcing tie scores in grade-school basketball games.

We seem to forget that without struggle, there can be no progress. Without embarrassment, there can be no empathy. Without failure, there can be no success. By outright avoiding the challenges of failure and embarrassment now, we are screwing up our children. We are creating future adults too fragile to exist in a world that won’t kiss their every boo-boo and gloss over their errors.

Can we stop the madness of over-protecting our children from every one of life’s potential pitfalls? I frankly do not know if it is too late to reverse course. However, I have come up with five easy steps that qualify as the opposite of helicopter parenting that you can take right now to make a difference.

1. Don’t do your child’s school projects

It is 100 percent a douche move to do the majority of your kiddo’s school project work. If you need to live vicariously through your child’s faux accomplishments in third grade, you are a colossal loser.

And, in case you’re wondering, you ain’t fooling anyone. We can all tell your kid had nothing to do with their pristine blue-ribbon winning science fair entry. You need to step off. Let them carry into class their crappy diorama with glue streaks because that is their real output. That kind of youthful failure is to be embraced. It will encourage them to try harder next time. And the next time and the time after that. This process is called “evolution.” If you do not let your children fail then you are stepping on its throat every time you complete assignments on your child’s behalf. Stop it.

2. Don’t correct their homework

How can anyone learn when their work has been scrubbed and sanitized? How will teachers know what your kid does or does not ACTUALLY know if every answer is correct, some of them artificially, on their homework when it comes back the next day? Let your kids try to use the knowledge they are accumulating in class. Let your children fail by getting some of the answers wrong. Allow them to be corrected by their teachers. This teaches them how to process constructive feedback from someone not related to them. Otherwise, you are standing over their shoulder applying Wite-Out to their childhood educational experience.

3. Shut up during sports

Dudes, tone it down. Let the coaches coach. Let the refs and the umps do their best. Trust in the process. Stop shouting in-game corrections to your kid and their teammates. If you do have a legit beef, be an adult and voice it on the down-low without veins bulging from your neck while you sit 20 yards off in the distance. Instead, allow your child and their instructors to work through the nuances of their performance. You are embarrassing yourself, your family, and most importantly, your kid. Now sit the hell down and shut up.

4. Let ‘em fall

You’re supposed to fall off the monkey bars while learning how to get from one side to the other. That’s how this stuff works. It’s called “trial and error,” not “trial and repeated help from a scared parent.” Kids have to know what it feels like to lose their grip, to feel the beads of sweat forming on their clammy palms, and to struggle mightily to stay attached to the cold metal bars, only to eventually succumb to gravity and hit the recently rubberized woodchips hard. Dust ’em off. Give ’em a kiss. Then encourage them to try it again … if not right away, then in a bit when their courage bar refills. Soon, they will get the hang of it, literally, and the glory in their accomplishment will be enhanced for having taken the more treacherous path instead of the padded one.

5. Embrace mistakes

Too many kids are not being allowed to make mistakes in their youth, the exact time when mistake-making SHOULD occur. Kids are going to screw up. They are going to invite ants into their room by leaving remnants of a sugary snack on the floor. They are going to drop and shatter a plate when trying to carry too many dishes while clearing the table after dinner. It is our job to pull lessons from these moments and teach a better way forward. That is one of the biggest “asks” of parenthood: to have the tough conversations, to give constructive feedback to help them learn from mistakes, to hold them tight but not hold them back when they are scared of failing, to give them the space necessary to try on their own, to love at every turn.

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This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

A version of this first appeared on Out With the Kids and then here in 2015. It has since been updated. Photo by Gustavo Fring via Pexels.

The end of summer vacation is looming for us parents and our kids. And, as the start of the school year draws closer, I have begun my annual tradition: the daily nagging of my children to complete the summer homework mandated by their schools. 

I am sure that I am annoying them.

And, of course, they are annoying me. 

Their procrastination and “ho-hum” attitude when thinking about picking up their books and laptops again is driving me nuts. Just as it does every summer. 

To help quell some of the household friction resulting from the impending assignments – from my 8-year-old reading a book and drawing a picture of the setting, to my 10-year-old’s storyboard of a book he’s read, to my high schoolers having two 300-page books each to read in the next 10 days – I started to devise a schedule to get the work completed by the first week of school. 

As I worked on this, I realized why my kids don’t care about this mandated summer school work. This feels like A LOT of work for little (or no) return. For both of us.

I cannot blame them. Most of their friends don’t bother with it. Why? Because they’ve never had a teacher ask them to turn in their summer homework. The simple nature of this work indicates its lack of importance.

From my teenagers’ point of view, we are the only parents who give a crap about completing summer homework. While I’ll discount their claim of being the “only kids that have to do this,” their lethargy has been taught by past years of little or no value credit given by teachers for students who had completed their summer assignments by the first day of class. If there’s no reward for the work, why do it? 

Summer homework or busy work?

For my younger kids, they see the “read a book and draw a picture” nature of their summer homework assignments and laugh at their simplicity. They feel intellectually patronized by a garbage assignment that wastes their time. Unlike my teens, though, their friends are participating (and complaining about the same BS work being asked). 

What do parents do? 

Do we stand with the schools and demand our kids complete the remedial work they have been assigned? 

Do we ignore these inconsequential assignments that only seem to increase our household tension over these next few weeks? 

I have decided to do the latter. 

There will be no more laying out study schedules. No more checking daily reading logs. No more demanding that my teens prove they have been reading through selfies sent during my working hours. And, mercifully, no more watching my kids scramble at the last minute to complete an assignment that has awarded them little more than a pat on the head. 

Enough. 

Drawing the line on summer reading assignments

It is time, I think, to stop the practice of piling homework on kids during the few months of the year they have time to decompress. Summer homework is not only meaningless, but it also unnecessarily cuts into a remarkedly short few months away from the classroom. 

What is wrong with kids (and parents) just chilling out?

Nothing.

Will reading that book and drawing its setting help my rising third grader springboard into a new school year?

No. 

Is summer homework a function of needy parents who need the credibility associated with “your school requires this” behind them to get their kids off their phones?

I think so.

Unlike past years, my kids’ summer school work will not be done when they charge into their next classroom in a few weeks.

Maybe that puts them a bit behind but maybe it doesn’t. 

No matter, it ensures that I will be spending the next few weeks helping them enjoy their fleeting freedom instead of annoying them with the structure that can certainly wait until the attendance bell rings. 

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This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

Photo by Oleksandr P via Pexels.

Are you a worrying parent?

I was but I’ve been at this long enough to have accumulated quite a bit of dirt beneath my fingernails (which have been painted numerous times and in a variety of colors by my two daughters) and to have walked a metaphorical mile with LEGO bricks stuck to the bottom of my parental feet. Still, I’m not immune to the nagging twinge of parental insecurity, and I too doubt myself more than any parent who tries probably should.

It’s damn hard to be alive and alert in the Pinterest age of perceived perfection filled with amazing school lunches and darling lunch notes, handmade end-of-year teacher’s gifts that radiate thoughtfulness, and countless kid/parent video series, each one more clever than the last. I can’t compete with all of that shit, either.

But this isn’t a competition. Our kids aren’t going to be holding up a score placard like the crooked Ukrainian judge at the end of a figure skating tournament. They love us and if we try hard, they will notice and appreciate our effort to keep them on the straight and narrow even if we take a winding path to get there. So stop worrying, fretting about every decision and judging yourself against the people of the internet. Half that shit is Photoshopped anyway.

I finally stopped worrying about as a parent these seven things, and in turn, have become a better, happier parent almost instantly:

Stop worrying about serving vegetables and/or fruit every day

My wife and I have built a sturdy foundation, of this I am nearly almost totally 99% certain, probably, so there is no longer (was there ever?) a need to panic about their fruit and veggie intake on a daily basis. My daughters each, although one WAY more than the other, enjoy many varieties of fruits and veggies, raw and prepared in a variety of ways. It’s all good. And if they skip a day or two, I know that they will be fine.

No more worrying about a little extra screen time

It can be fun to loaf around and play games. They are kids after all, and it’s pretty cool to sometimes veg out in front of a TV screen or a device. The outside — with its sticks, lightning bugs, swing sets and scooters — is an option they choose often enough, so I can chillax if they, on occasion, pick the iPad or the 3DS instead. They will be fine.

Stop trying to hit every tourist destination

We no longer push our daughters’ physical or mental limits to squeeze in everything when we travel. Instead, we do what we can at a leisurely pace, see what we can see, experience more of a place than see all of that place, and in turn, leave the girls plenty still to discover should they return decades later with their own kids. So what if we miss something being sold on a postcard at the airport? They will be fine.

Quit freaking that her shorts are too tiny

Their ass cheeks aren’t sticking out, their underwear is not visible, and the pockets are not longer than the hem (man, that trend is hideous) of their denim shorts, but the clothes they are in are a bit tiny-ish. I could never get comfortable in threads like that, although now that I’m losing weight I find form-fitting shirts more pleasant than baggy ones but then again, I am a man — no one is going to bat an eye if my form is evident through my clothing as I walk down the street. Women don’t have it so easy.

My girls are 10 and 7, and they wear what makes them happiest without care about a world full of adults who might judge, men who might leer, or women who might tsk-tsk. My two goofball daughters dress for themselves and no one else, and that is what I wish to instill in them. They are comfy and they will be fine.

It’s OK if they swim immediately after eating

To quote Josh and the Jamtones hilarious “Bear Hunt” comedy skit, “So I just had a piece of pizza, who cares?” Myths are for those with too much time on their hands. Finish chewing then cannonball away, girls, you will be fine.

Stop fretting about crappy pop music

That stuff is no longer a bugaboo for me … but the Demi Lovato version of “Let it Go” still sucks. I’m grateful for the “kindie” music that has allowed me as a music lover to give my daughters song upon song that they were able to “get” from a very young age, songs that spoke to them and their childhood experiences as toddlers, grade schoolers and now as kids who are just now beginning to grow out of their youth with a wistful melancholy about that very transition.

While she still listens loudly and with much love to amazing bands like The Pop Ups, Recess Monkey, Lunch Money and Secret Agent 23 Skidoo, they now share space in our iTunes library with more familiar names. It is all good because my girls know what great music, made with passion, and presented live in intimate settings, is all about. They’ve been holding hands with it from the start. And they will be fine.

Stop worrying about playing organized sports or extracurriculars

They’ve tried gymnastics, ballet, tap, soccer, karate, basketball, floor hockey, tennis and golf yet nothing has proved as sticky as imaginative unstructured playtime together as sisters at home. They get along with other kids, especially if the other kids are younger and adorable, that’s when my two mini-mommies shine, and so I am no longer concerned with the absence of team or solo competitive pursuits. Many “experts” will tell you a child needs such activity, but even without many going forward, I am certain my daughters will be absolutely fine.

Editor’s Note: A version of this article first appeared on Out With the Kids. Photo by Paul Keller on Foter.com / CC BY

Before I became a dad, I remember casually taking mental notes of the parenting methods used by my friends and family. Some things they did made sense. But there were other things I knew that, when I had children of my own, I would never do. And in some instances, I didn’t quite understand what their thinking was. 

Naturally, I just chalked the latter up to me “not getting it” because I didn’t have kids. 

In particular, whenever I would visit one cousin, I noticed she would immediately change the TV channel if the news came on when her young boys were in the room. To be honest, it was kind of annoying because, being a news junkie, I wanted to watch. After a few times of this happening, I couldn’t take it anymore and asked why she did it.

Her response was simple: she didn’t want her kids watching the news and seeing and hearing about some of the bad things going on in the world. Not yet at least. 

Logically it made sense. However, I wasn’t a parent then, so my brain heard that reasoning as “sheltering.” I even told my wife about it, confidently declaring those boys wouldn’t be ready for the “real world” as they got older. 

Little did I know that now, with a 4-year-old son and 17-month-old daughter, I’d be doing the same thing. If we’re all sitting around with the TV on and the news comes on, I grab the remote. I quickly flip over to the Disney Channel, YouTube or CoComelon. 

It’s funny how your outlook on life shifts once you become a parent.

Science on kids watching news

Unfortunately, in today’s age, most lead stories on the news are either related to violence, death, politics, vehicle accidents, or something bad going on with the weather. It’s very rare newscasts open with a “good” story. That’s not something I want the kids consuming. It took me becoming a parent to understand the importance of monitoring what they’re exposed to. It’s something I’m sure my cousin had to learn with her sons. And I learned from them.

Some research and children’s health professionals support this thinking.

A 2003 study published in the Annals of Clinical Psychiatry found that kids living within 100 miles of a terrorist attack (in this case, the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing and the 9/11 terrorist attacks) who spent a lot of time watching news coverage of the event reported more symptoms related to trauma. A 2020 article in American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry notes that research has shown children and adolescents are prone to “copycat” what they see and hear in the news.

“Chronic and persistent exposure to such violence can lead to fear, desensitization (numbing), and in some children an increase in aggressive and violent behaviors,” according to the AACAP article.

Preserving childhood innocence

The innocence of children is a breath of fresh air. It’s a welcome change of pace from the problems we adults deal with on a daily basis. As I watch my kids every day running around, playing and screaming without a care in the world, it’s devastating to me to know that they’ll be affected by what they see, hear and read on the news. Even worse, I’m frightened by what they may experience themselves when they’re out of my sight. 

But I know a day will come when my children realize every day is not games, snacks and laughter. They will encounter people who are mean and purposely try to hurt their feelings. And I will have to explain to them the realities of the world.

I want my son to think the world is this fun, magical world for as long as he can. I want my daughter to always giggle and smile like she does when we play “peek-a-boo.” Those are luxuries I wish I had as an adult. But as it goes with parenting, deciding when to expose your kids to watching the news and dealing with the subsequent conversations that will come when they start asking questions, is yet another thing I’ll have to face in fatherhood. 

Until then, we’ll just watch CoComelon over and over and over again.

More about children and the news

For more information on this subject, read:

• How to Talk to Your Child About the News, Nemours Kids Health
• Helping Your Child Cope with Media Coverage of Disasters: A Fact Sheet for Parents, University of Missouri/National Child Traumatic Stress Network
• Should you let your child watch the news?, Superpower Kids
• What to Tell Your Children about School Shootings, Center for Parent and Teen Communication

Photo: © Vadim / Adobe Stock.

It was a perfect August morning for peach-picking.

My wife and I were a week away from driving my oldest daughter, Lauren, back to college in Boston for her senior year. After many months of virtual learning from home, the time was “ripe” for her return to in-person learning. To celebrate this pandemic milestone, we planned a final summer outing to a local farm to pick peaches together.

As we gathered with other families and waited for instructions from the couple who owned the farm, warm memories of our children’s younger days picking apples each fall flooded my mind. I knew I would miss days like this with Lauren.

In fact, I couldn’t help likening her imminent departure from our lives once again to the process of picking ripe fruit from a tree. As the farming couple explained, “If the peach is ripe and ready to pick it should come easily off the tree.” After so much pandemic family time, there was no doubt Lauren was ready to leave again.

The farmers added that picking peaches reverses our usual traffic-light associations with red and green. A red peach means “go ahead and pick,” a green peach means “stop — not ready for picking yet.” As Lauren walked in front of us toward the sunny peach patch, I stopped to savor the moment.

Then, it happened.

As if in slow motion, Lauren caught her foot on uneven ground and fell down in pain. No! We hadn’t even picked one peach yet, but she was concerned her ankle might be broken. And she needed to move into her new apartment in just seven days! So off to the nearest emergency room we went for an X-ray. Fortunately, it was just a sprain, but she left in crutches.

Then, something else happened.

Just a few days before our scheduled drive to Boston, Tropical Storm Henri emerged as a threat to the East Coast. The forecasters said it could become the first hurricane to hit Boston in 30 years. Plus, a full moon meant higher tides and greater chances for flooding. What are the odds?

Suddenly, the time did not seem ripe for our back-to-school trip. But because Henri’s intensity and direction were hard for forecasters to predict, my wife and I had to make one of those harrowing parenting decisions. Either we could drive Lauren to Boston early, move her stuff into her apartment, and have her stay safe at my brother’s house during the storm, or we could drive her after the storm but then risk many travel dangers on our return home.

Parenting is full of difficult decisions

We ended up driving her to Boston early to beat the storm, but it went against our parental instincts. What kind of parents drive their child into peril rather than away from peril?

That question flitted through my mind every time various emergency and tree-cutting vehicles with their orange cones hanging off the sides passed us on the Massachusetts Turnpike. By the time we moved Lauren in, her ankle felt better, but she still had to hobble to her third floor bedroom.

Our roller coaster experience with Lauren reminded me that parents always have to make tough decisions, whether we (and the conditions around us) are ready or not. In other words, ripening can’t be rushed.

Sometimes you collect juicy, red-cheeked, perfectly ripe fruit in the peach patch of parenthood. Other times, your child sprains her ankle and you end up in an emergency room before needing to navigate a hurricane as you move that child across several states.

On the way home from Boston, I felt an incredible mix of emotions. Relief that Lauren would be safe. Happiness because she was about to begin her senior year. Worry that she might be overconfident about her ankle. Sadness that our move-in goodbye weekend was curtailed so dramatically.

But I also couldn’t help thinking of a final piece of advice the farming couple gave at our peach-picking session: “Handle the peach like an egg.”

Peaches, like children, are precious and often vulnerable, especially when they’re young. As children age, parents can no longer handle them like an egg in our hands. We can always, however, hold them like an egg in our hearts.

Photo: © Brett / Adobe Stock.

My latest paying gig comes with some choice benefits, the best being I get to work remotely four days out of every five. Once a week, I pop in to the office to touch base, sit in on meetings, and sip some damn fine cardamom-flavored coffee.

The rest of the time, I’m allowed free reign. Being able to work from home has enabled me to help my wife with the daily dropping off and picking up at school of our four kids, ages 8 through 3.

While I’m happy to be more available to lend a hand around the homestead, raising young children is trench warfare. Calling it a full-time job is like describing World War II as a series of border skirmishes. And the logistical maneuvering required to make our household hum makes the Normandy invasion look like a walk in the park. Yet whenever I start to feel overwhelmed, frustrated, or just plain bored with fatherhood, I hit the pause button, and then rewind to see how I could change my children’s future.

The movie I play back reinvigorates me: Our children are happy, well-adjusted, boisterous, clever, engaging little people. While I can’t take credit for all or even most of that, my wife and I have made Herculean efforts to allow our babies to see people with their own eyes, feel the world with their own fingers, do as guided by their curiosity, and develop into the strong-minded, independent children they are today.

Our life’s movie could easily have gone off in a very different direction. We know people — lovely, caring parents — who are raising their kids as best they know how. But there’s only so much these parents can do to guide and protect their children. You see, when a child is diagnosed with a developmental disorder or physiological issue of some kind, all the love and trying in the world won’t completely “fix” it. This is a parent’s greatest challenge: raising a child to be a confident, self-sufficient adult under the most trying of circumstances.

My wife and I are thus doubly blessed. First, our fearsome foursome has thus far displayed no health-related, emotional or psychological issues that could hinder their development. Second, we’re aware of how lucky we are. Good health, mental, physical, emotional and otherwise should never be taken for granted.

However, there are danger signs ahead in my children’s future. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and I’m still hot tempered, quick to judge, and reckless in my actions. Yet when I see one of my daughters displaying these same tendencies, I can’t help but smile. For even though I may never get a full grip on my demons, I now have an opportunity to make sure that those demons will die with me. You can rewrite the scenes from your life in which you would have liked to have acted differently, then gently copy and paste that wisdom into your kid’s life story.

If you’re lucky, they’ll even be willing to sit with you and tweak the parts of their own screenplay that really need some rewriting. Just a few minor modifications early on could well turn out to be the difference between children growing into adults who live bold lives lived on their own terms, and gray lives marred by overwhelming anxiety, chronic confusion, and even unhappiness.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gidon Ben-Zvi is an accomplished writer who left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

Children’s future photo: ©natalialeb / Adobe Stock.

On a hot summer morning, I walk stealthily from my car to the covered pavilion in between two rows of tennis courts at the front of the park.

I make sure to approach from a particular direction, keeping the small trees and bushes between me and the courts so I remain unnoticed. I sit on a weathered green bench attached to a picnic table. I disrupt a squirrel’s meal and, startled, it scampers away to safety.

I’ve given up some things to be a stay-at-home parent — career, money, a large swath of my sanity — but moments like this make the sacrifice worth it. Quiet moments of secretive observation like this are why I am most grateful for my life choices and the privilege that allows me to make those choices.

This is when I stop thinking about all things I could be doing and appreciate what I am doing. I’m experiencing my children’s childhood and that matters.

My two sons, ages 5 and 7, go to tennis camp during the summer at the county park just around the corner from our house. Tennis has been an important part of my life since I started playing when I was 7. My interest and commitment have ebbed and flowed over the years, but it remains a part of who I am. As sports go, it was unique enough that I took it on as part of my personality when I was growing up. Plenty of kids played baseball or basketball, but I played tennis! And as I grew into an adult, as my life changed and took me in different directions, tennis remained my touchstone. A link to my past and something I could rely on to be there in my future.

However, while tennis is an important part of my life, my children are my world. I love watching them do anything. Well, almost anything. I don’t particularly enjoy watching them watch people playing Minecraft on YouTube, even though they wish I did. I love watching them on the playground or playing soccer. I love seeing them test their limits and exist in a world that’s not controlled by me.

As parents, we can cast a long shadow on our children’s lives. That’s why I love observing my children when I’m not in charge. When I’m not expected to play along. When they don’t even know I’m there. Like today.

My 7-year-old appears to be carrying on a continuous running commentary as he and the three other children on his court retrieve orange-and-yellow tennis balls from the cart, drop them, and then hit erratic forehands that fly in all directions. I can’t help but chuckle because he is so different from me in some ways and I love it. I worry about my children inheriting my anxieties and shyness, so I’m always pleased when they show signs of having more outgoing personalities.

Two courts over, my 5-year-old is playing a slightly unusual game with the three other children in his group. He is holding a circular white laundry basket while his partner, a blonde-haired boy with knee-high socks, drops and hits oversized red-and-yellow tennis balls for him to catch. As the balls fly wildly through the air or bump along the ground, he scampers in every direction with his laundry basket in tow. He is determined, energetic, eager and, perhaps most importantly, very ready to take on some light laundry duties at home.

I, like many other moms and dads, often get lost in the weeds when parenting. We spend our days struggling to keep our children fed and cleaned and mentally stimulated (but not overstimulated!) and physically active and happy and on and on. Meanwhile, we often forget to step back to get a broader view.

I often wonder, “How are my children really doing?” Sure, we get the report cards and messages from teachers, the odd tidbit from an acquaintance or friend. That helps us ascertain some of what goes on when we’re not around. But what’s the real story of their everyday lives?

So I’m lucky when I get to spend a few minutes each week, silently and covertly, watching my children play the sport I love. It might not seem like much, but it’s just what I need to keep me focused on what really matters. I spend a lot of time worrying about what I’m not doing, like making money or policing my kids’ screen-time effectively or making my kids eat enough vegetables. I’m not doing so many things, but all it takes is a few minutes of quiet observation for me to remember that I must be doing some things right.

My children have unique personalities that are constantly evolving. They are happy and loved. And by the looks of things, at least one of them is going to be helping out with the laundry very soon. But best of all, I get a front-row seat to watch it all happen. Even if that seat is sometimes hidden behind tree branches.

Photo: © HBS / Adobe Stock.

Postmark: Jerusalem, Israel; August 2

Dear Sheila,

How’s Chi-Town? The girls can’t wait to spend a whole two weeks with you. And I can’t wait to receive the hourly updates about all they’ll be seeing and doing during their upcoming adventure.

Danielle and I also look forward to our daughters returning to our home in Israel with Chicago accents and attitudes. Jerusalem is such a mad, mad mix of people, languages and backgrounds. Two little girls jabbering about “Da Bears,” drinking “pop” (instead of “Coke”) and riding ‘The L” will add a bit more spice to the city’s delightful stew of sounds. Am Yisrael Chai!

Since we haven’t spoken since the last time you visited, I thought I’d properly prepare you for Dina’s and Dalya’s arrival. They’re growing into such strong, confident young ladies. But like any finely tuned machine, they require constant care.

Don’t get me wrong: I have total confidence in your ability to look after our girls. Still, Dina will be entering second grade in the fall and Dalya, the first grade. Our family therapist says these are the crucial years in a child’s development. Danielle and I have invested so much time (and money!) on coaches, counselors, rabbis and dietitians. Don’t you think it would be a shame if all our, I mean “our girls’,” hard work was flushed down the drain in just 14 days?

With that in mind, I’d like to kindly but firmly suggest the following:

One. Danielle and I are so proud that our 6-year-old princess has decided to go off bread. She’s been on the keto diet for six months and is brimming with energy. Since shifting to the cyclical ketogenic diet in particular, Dina has even managed to sleep more quickly. Do you know any other first grader who only needs three hours of shuteye? She’s an inspiration. But to make sure that Dina doesn’t fall back into a high-carb lifestyle, I’ll be sending you a link to her daily nutritional requirements in my follow-up to this email.

Dos. We, unfortunately, won’t be able to complete the screening process of your apartment building’s 247 tenants. Instead of canceling the trip, I think it makes sense to install a few pinhole spy cameras around your apartment, inside your building’s two elevators, the lobby and on the two rooftop fire extinguishers. Even though we won’t be around every second of every day, these fun little gizmos will make it feel like we are. Hugs!

Thirdish. Dalya must not be woken up before noon. The holistic rabbi Danielle and I have been consulting with believes that Ray-Ray’s recent rash of pilfering paper and paints from her classroom (such a scamp!) is being caused by teachers who aren’t encouraging her creativity AND us having to wake her up every single day before noon. Poor thing. I’ve texted the school principal about modifying the class curriculum and hours of operation to accommodate Dalya’s unique needs. I’ll keep you posted.

IV. Bath time can be the most wonderful time of the day. However, both girls have been diagnosed with atopic dermatitis and need to be handled with special care. Sweet Sheila, if you only knew how harsh the desert air can be on delicate skin. To prevent any more nasty flare-ups, we no longer use harsh soaps, detergents and other irritants. Danielle heard about an amazing ointment that makes those funky red patches on the hands, feet, ankles, neck and torso disappear. The cream is derived from the Vayambu plant. We order it online from a company based in Kerala, India. I’ll send you a link.

The sixth. As you know, there’s a six-hour time difference between Israel and Chicago. So, it’ll take the girls about six days to get over their jet lag. Danielle and I are concerned since Dina and Dalya are returning to Israel only on August 27 and their first day of school is September 1. Would you be a dear and ask the flight attendants on the flight back to Israel to kindly dim the cabin’s interior lighting? We want to make sure that the girls are primed for a successful school year. Otherwise, they can kiss the student council goodbye.

That’s about it for now. It would be amazing if you could print, sign, notarize, scan and send me back this document within the next 24 hours.

Love,
David

P.S. I understand that you spent a week poodle-sitting for a neighbor. You have such a big heart! But seriously, you do remember that Dina is violently allergic to doggie dander, right? Danielle and I spoke about it and we’d love to help pay to have your entire wardrobe dry-cleaned and house steamed. No thanks necessary.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gidon Ben-Zvi, who is not a helicopter parent, is an accomplished writer who left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

Helicopter parent photo: © nicoletaionescu / Adobe Stock.

When your 15-year-old is on spring break with another family for a week, the last click-bait you want to see on your phone is “Tornado Watch from Florida to South Carolina.”

What are the odds, I fretted, as my thumbs speed-texted “U ok? Just heard about tornado watch for sarasota?”

My daughter replied like King Kong casually batting away a helicopter parent: “yeah we r good.”

Despite her nonchalance, shortly after her return home she admitted that my message had, in fact, alerted them to a coming storm, much to her amazement. Begrudgingly, she gave me credit for helping them take shelter as the rain and wind passed. In other words, I had been right.

My moment of sublime triumph, however, did not last long. For I realized that finally, after 18 years of parenting my two daughters and trying not to become my own parents, it was official: I had become my mother. I can explain.

Have you ever seen television news anchors with imperfect hair and no make-up? I hadn’t either until five days after my firstborn’s arrival in Toledo, Ohio, in 2000. My wife and I were sitting on our couch watching a movie while she breastfed the baby. Our finished basement had few windows so we heard little noise from the outside. Midway through the movie, my worrisome mother called from New York. She had just seen on The Weather Channel that Toledo was in the path of a tornado. Because she tended to exaggerate threats and our room was quiet, I didn’t bother to check outside.

Minutes later, a siren penetrated our domestic bliss.

We turned off the movie, checked a television station in this age before cell phones, and saw a shocking image: the local news anchors were struggling to keep their composure as they urged viewers to find safe cover. Immediately! There was a tornado in the area, and one of the anchors actually yelled, “If you’re in a car right now, stop, get out, and jump into a ditch!”

I dashed upstairs. The sky was sea-green, trees were near horizontal, and windows rattled in their frames. (Insert “Holy Toledo!” wherever you see fit.)

I’m not proud of what happened next, but hey, I was a brand new dad

I ran back downstairs, informed my wife, and began brainstorming ways to keep our family safe. After frantically gathering flashlights, candles, and matches, I kept visualizing our brick house raining down on our heads as we stood in a doorway (as the frazzled anchors recommended). So my mind kept thinking “helmet.” All I could find were bicycle helmets, which I brought to the couch as my wife rolled her eyes.

For the record, I must emphasize that at no point did anyone actually put on a helmet.

Regarding the baby, I visualized holding her under my body to shield her from debris, but that was not enough for my addled, panicking brain. It seemed perfectly logical that she would be most protected, if necessary, by lying underneath a turkey pan that I found. Again, an eye roll from my wife, this time more dramatic.

Also for the record, the baby was never actually put under the turkey pan.

Feeling prepared, I sat back down to watch the news. Suddenly our landline rang. I expected my mother again, but it was an old friend calling from Las Vegas. (What are the odds?) He wanted to catch up on a few years’ worth of family doings. I could only issue a tornado-laden excuse and promise to call him back.

Fortunately, the tornado touched down a few blocks away and no one was injured. Our oblivious daughter nursed throughout the evening. While I don’t remember what movie we were watching that night, the tornado experience (and now my daughter’s tornado encore) brought home the wisdom of an old saying: even in adulthood, you should always listen to your mother (or father).

Photo on Foter.com

It’s about time to declare my parenting style because, apparently, that’s everyone’s business.

I learned this through the “Parenting and Faith” Sunday school class at our church. Not that I’m that active in that class as I should be. Truthfully, I’m not active at all. I mean I don’t ever go. My wife goes now and again, but, right or wrong, I haven’t filed the class into the “must do” part of my brain. Besides, Micah 6:8 says, “What does the Lord require of you? To do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.” It doesn’t say anything about getting kids ready an hour before worship and then fighting to get the 2-year-old to go tearfully into the nursery for a couple hours.

Anyway, we’re off topic and I don’t want to make God angrier than s/he already is with me. (What up, Jesus!) One of the leaders of the Sunday school class sent out an email asking for discussion on an article in The New Yorker about so-called “free range kids.” Well, here we go…

In theory, hell yes! Raising free-range kids would be awesome. Let ’em do what they do and learn from it without me having to intervene? Uh, yeah. I’ll take it.

Similarly, in theory, helicopter parenting keeps your kids safer, which is also awesome. Follow them closely to make sure no harm ever comes to them and be there to teach lessons the way I want them taught? Yeah, that sounds good, too. But as my good friend and mentor, Homer Simpson, notes, “In theory, communism works. In theory.”

Creating my own parenting style

My kids are young so I can’t say how I’ll feel when they’re old enough to, say, walk or bike to school, but right now I fall somewhere in between the two contrasting parenting styles, but a good bit over on the free-range end of the spectrum — and that’s a direct result of how I was raised. Although I’m sure there wasn’t a name for this parenting style in the 1980s, I’m going to call it “FreeRange-Ocopter Parenting.”

I have no doubt my parents kept a good eye on me when I was a kid, but more often than not, they did so without my knowledge. One of my best friends growing up lived toward the back of the neighborhood and I lived in the front — probably about a half- to three-quarters of a mile from door to door. We routinely rode bikes to one another’s houses starting around age 6 or 7. I distinctly remember the feeling of freedom as I rode my Huffy down the hill where Wild Rose Drive met Hickory Hollow Lane, the wind blowing against my face. The trip probably took me five to eight minutes, but it might as well have been an hour. I was out on my own and it was awesome. What I didn’t know was that my mom and my friend’s mom would call one another to let the other know when he or I arrived. A little parenting from the free-range column, and a little parenting from the helicopter column.

When I was an older, my parent-drawn borders expanded. They let me ride to the creek a few miles away. Usually, my crew of friends would take our BB guns and target frogs or pinecones in trees or each other whatever else. (In the interest of full disclosure, sometimes one of us would bring a .22 rifle. I doubt my mom knew that was happening. Surprise, Mom! Thanks for reading!) We were almost always given a time to return and check in at someone’s house — usually mine. I’m sure there were times that letting me go out and explore, even close to home, made Mom nervous, but she still let it happen. When I was old enough, she even let me drive seven of my friends 40 miles in our station wagon  across Houston to the Astrodome to watch the Astros play — and made us call on our briefcase cell phone as soon as we were in the parking lot.

My parenting style in action

Freedom with limits. That’s what FreeRange-Ocopter Parenting is about. Here’s how I practice it right now with my 2- and 4-year-old (4YO):

4YO: Hey Dad, can I run to that tree over there?

Me: Go for it. I’ll time you.

[Child runs 20 yards away, comes back]

Me: 20 seconds! Great job!

4YO: Can I run to the fence over there?!

Me: Go for it!

[Child runs 200 yards away while I make the 2 year-old stop throwing mulch on other kids. I am not watching the older child run across the park and back but I know where she is and what she’s doing. I can look up and see her at any time. She’s fine, and she feels like she’s been on a huge adventure.]

See how easy that is? Freedom with limits. As the kids get older and more responsible, the limits are expanded. If they break my trust, the limits contract.

Give it a try. If you’re a helicopter parent, you might feel scared. If you’re a free-range parent, you might feel oppressive. But think about how your kid will feel — trusted, adventurous, free.

Of course, this is all subject to change when the kids can drive.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Matt Norman, an at-home dad of three, is organizer of our Austin Dads Group chapter. A version of this post first appeared on And So It Has Come to This.

Photo: Emma Frances Logan on Unsplash