A few weeks ago, we were eating breakfast and my three year old, staring out the kitchen window, said, “Look at all the police!” They weren’t police; they were FBI agents. Lots of them. Arresting my neighbor. Twenty feet away from my breakfast table. For being part of a world-wide child pornography ring.
This week, we were on our way to tae kwon do when a man decided to make a left hand turn without checking to see if anyone was in the passing lane that he would be crossing. We were in the passing lane. Our minivan was totalled; we’re all fine. (But . . . but . . . I can’t tell you how many times my three-year-old has taken off his seat belt and I haven’t realized it until we got home. If . . . )
We criticize helicopter parents. But could I ever hover enough to protect my children?
They are 3, 6, and 9. They have the attention span of gnats with ADHD, except when I bring out the matches, candles, toothpicks, and old chopsticks (my three-year-old calls them “porkchops”). They’ll sit at the table for hours entranced by the flame, by the melting wax. I let my children play with fire. If only it were the most dangerous thing we did.