"Good moms let you lick the beaters. Great moms turn them off first."

My husband got home from work today, sat down to eat lunch, looked at me with my greasy hair and holy sweats; and said with a smirk, “I know this sounds funny, but what can I do to help?  What still needs to be packed?” It didn’t even take us a second to start laughing.

We leave for vacation Monday morning.  We’ve been planning this vacation since summer.  And now, I have been packing and preparing for three weeks.  As an elementary school teacher, preparing sub plans for vacation is more work than actually teaching.  And of course, packing for myself and our two young children is RI.DIC.U.LOUS.  Four syllables.  So, when Larry asks “What can I do to help?”; we both know this is just a way of him trying to throw out support for his wife that has yet to shower at 3:00 in the afternoon.  Because we both know I’m going to say, “Nothing”.  However, it doesn’t help that he throws a suitcase on the bed, spends 10 minutes shoving in clothes, zips it up, and laughs, “Well, I’m packed.”  I was ready to tell him where he could shove that suitcase.

So, on Monday morning, we will lug 6 bags to the airport. We only have four family members.  May sound a bit off, but sounds completely normal to me.  I thrive on organization. My OCD doesn’t let me prepare otherwise.  Packing, making sure everything is “just right”, ensuring we have everything we could POSSIBLY need makes me feel calm.  Our medicine bag is filled to the brim.  Our carry-ons are jammed pack with anything and everything to keep the kids occupied on the plane.  We even have one duffel full of snacks so we don’t have to spend a fortune eating while we are there.  Rainstorm?  We’ve got rain jackets.  Cold weather?  We’ve got sweatshirts and pants.  100 degrees?  Tank tops and shorts.  Hell, I even packed magazines for my father.

And then it hit me.  When did I turn into THIS kind of parent? 

Facebook has been bombarded with those quizzes: If you were a dog, what breed what you be? Golden Retriever.  What career should you really have? Humanitarian.  Which Disney Princess are you? Belle.  And then…What kind of parent are you?  I was seriously expecting something like “Realist” or “Hipster Mom”(well, I hoped for that).  No.  I got “Helicopter Parent”. Wait. Shut the mother lovin’ front door.  Helicopter Parent?  HELICOPTER PARENT? My husband and I pride ourselves on being real with our kids.  Letting them take chances.  Letting them get hurt.  Letting them eat potato chips, just as long as it’s in moderation.  Learning from experiences. “You scratched your knee? It’s cool, walk it off.”  “Someone was mean to you?  Stick up for yourself!”  But, HELICOPTER PARENT? WTF.

I sat on that for a little bit.  And then I packed. And I packed some more.  And I organized and compartmentalized and I made lists.  I made sure every shirt matched with every pair of shorts and every outfit of Maggie’s had a matching set of earrings.  And then it hit me.  Well, shit.  Maybe there is a small part of me that is a helicopter parent (I’m sticking with small).  So, I did what any so-called Helicopter Parent with OCD would do.  I asked Google.  Apparently, helicopter parents are known for over-parenting, over-protecting, and are overly-involved in their children’s lives.  Overly-involved? I think I get an A+ in that category.  Over-protecting? Nope. Not me.  But, my duffel bag full of the entire medicine aisle from Target begs to differ.  On the contrary; “Free-Range Parents” allow their children to learn by making mistakes and foster their child’s need for independence.  Yes! This! This is the answer I was holding out hope for. This was me!  Right? Maybe? Maybe not.  It’s a fine line between these two types of parents.  And that gray area is most likely the best place to be.  Either way, I’m just doing my best here. So, when we step on that plane Monday morning, I will have my anti-bacterial wipes ready for Harps after he uses the airport bathroom.  But, if he’s screaming because of his ears and drops his much-needed lollipop on the dirty plane floor; you better believe I’m licking it clean and shoving that thing right back in his mouth.  Because, that’s me.  Always walkin’ that fine line.