Poolside Helicopter Parent: It's Not What You Think

If you've been at our local YMCA pool during late afternoons this summer, you've seen me. 

I'm the "Helicopter Mom" that you saw there.  Yes, THAT mom.  The one that you watched coolly from your deck chair as you occasionally glanced up from your book to make sure your child--younger than mine--was still around...somewhere. 

Yes, I was THAT mom.  The one that apparently didn't get the memo about how hovering over my child was both harmful...and so uncool.

I was the one that you, and everyone else (including the lifeguard), noticed because I was the only mom who:

• Was never more than 10 feet away from her child, though the child had a green wrist band indicating that the child could, to the satisfaction of the lifeguard, swim across the pool and back and tread water for at least 60 seconds.  

• Didn't seem to trust the lifeguard to keep her child safe, though the lifeguard was right there very intently watching a small handful of children in a relatively small area. 

• Moved over to stand close to the end of the water slide, watching intensely, not just the first time or two--which would have been reasonable--but every single time her daughter barreled down the slide and plunged into the water--as if she didn't trust that her daughter would come back to the surface and so had to be right there to save her. 

• Followed her child--who looked to be at least 10, maybe 11 years old--to the other side of the pool--the Kiddie Pool--and watched her there just as diligently as if the child were in deep water (although there were at least 7 other sets of eyes--the lifeguard and half a dozen parents sitting there with their feet in the water--also watching).

• Had wet hair because she was in the water with her child instead of lounging on the pool deck or sitting with feet dangling in the water like the rest of the parents of above-preschool-aged children.

• Glanced over repeatedly and even called out after several minutes, to make sure her child--waiting in a safe, relatively orderly line at the water slide along with more than half a dozen other friendly, reasonably orderly children--was OK.

• Looked idiotically happy about every normal everything that her normal child did. 

And finally, there was that little drama in which you and everyone else (including the lifeguard) watched me ask--and then quietly but firmly insist--that my child get out of the pool--though she didn't want to and protested loudly--to eat a snack--though she said she wasn't hungry.  And the really cringe-worthy part--when you heard me firmly insist that my child eat at least 10 pecans (not 5, or 8, but 10 pecans!) and half an apple--and drink half a bottle of water--before being allowed back in the water.

I'm keenly aware of what it must have looked like from your point of view. Just two years ago I'd have thought similar things about the same behaviors.  And I too would've made all sorts of assumptions--probably very similar to the ones you made.
And I, like you, would have been fair in my judgments.  I'd have peered over the top of my book watching, first the child and then the parent, trying to figure out what was wrong with either one of them or with the combination of the two together.

Because isn't that what we all do when we see a parent, a child, or the two together behaving outside our norms?  First we look for clues that there is something "wrong" with the child to excuse the parent's behavior; and then, if we find nothing "wrong" with the child, we presume there's something wrong with the parent.

Which brings me back to the YMCA this last summer.

My 10 year old daughter doesn't have any of the physical, emotional, or social symptoms--obvious or subtle--of any of the conditions our culture has made a concerted effort to educate us about so as to give the children who deal with these conditions--and the parents who parent those children--the space, permission, and even the blessing to be "different."

And so, by societal protocol, you're free--and even encouraged--to presume that because there's nothing "wrong" with my daughter, there must instead be something very wrong with me--her parent. 

And it's true--from all outward appearances, my behavior condemns me.

I seem to be the perfect example of a Helicopter Parent: a parent who needlessly hovers (like a helicopter) over her child, anxiously, excessively watching, protecting, and engaging in "inappropriate, anxiety-driven parenting tactics" that "compromise [her child's] autonomy, mastery, and personal growth."

But...

What if it's not at all what you think?

What if you're missing an important piece of information in making your judgments?

And what if, in fact, that missing piece of information changes everything?

And what if, in fact, society has failed to educate you about a condition--even a relatively common one---which our culture, in all it's supposedly enlightened attitudes, still hides away, shuns, and politely declines to look full in the face--that would make sense of all of my Helicopter Parenting behaviors?

The missing piece of information?

My child has Epilepsy.

If Epilepsy Awareness had had anything approaching the success that Autism Awareness has had in educating the public, then you would already know that epilepsy involves many different kinds of seizures--and not just convulsive seizures of the sort you've seen on TV.

In fact, it isn't the threat of convulsive seizures, but the threat of  non-convulsive seizures that keeps me hovering over my daughter at the pool.

My daughter--like 1 in every 10 of the estimated 300,000 children (ages 14 and under) in the US with epilepsy--has absence or petit mal seizures.  Absence or petit mal seizures are simply sudden (no warning), short (3-20 second) episodes of altered consciousness (unresponsive unawareness very much like being unconscious).

The truth is this:  One moment my child is fine; the next moment, she's not fine--she's "absent:" unaware of herself and her surroundings, and unresponsive to all stimuli.  During an absence seizure my child is completely incapable of perceiving danger or of taking the actions needed to keep herself safe.  For all practical purposes a seizure renders her unconscious: she's unaware of her own existence or the existence of the world around her.

When a seizure happens, none of the water safety knowledge or skills my daughter has worked so hard to acquire are at her disposal.  She is, for all practical purposes, an unconscious person in the water, incapable of bringing any conscious knowledge or action to bear on her situation.

She can't swim.  She can't tread water.  She can't bob back to the surface after barreling out the end of the water slide and plunging into the water.  She doesn't know to hold her breath under water.  She doesn't know she has to get her head to the surface to breathe air or she'll drown.

If you think about the implications of this--a child suddenly and without warning being unconscious in the water--you'll find it's not so hard to imagine why I hover over my daughter while she's in the water.  Unconscious people and water don't mix; without close supervision and quick intervention the two make for an unhealthy or even lethal combination.

Keeping my daughter safe in the water requires vigilant supervision from one moment to the next.  It involves watching her closely for exactly the opposite of what you might think of when you hear the word, epilepsy.  Instead of looking for repetitive movements that might signal a convulsive seizure, I watch my daughter for the sudden cessation of movement that might signal an absence seizure.  If she stops moving for more than two seconds my intervention is swift--if she's underwater, I quickly pull her to the surface where she can breathe.

This job of keeping my daughter safe is best done IN the water--from no more than 10 or 15 feet away (far enough away to give her space, but close enough that I can swim to her almost instantaneously); it's hard to do from a lounge chair on the pool deck. It's is a fully-dedicated, full-attention task.  In this way, my child, when she's in the water, is a decidedly SPECIAL NEEDS child.  She has a special need for unusually close supervision--supervision that a lifeguard can't give her while fulfilling his responsibility to keep all the other swimmers in the pool safe. 

Every Helicopter-Parent-like behavior I exhibit at the pool is medically necessary and is a function of keeping my daughter safe.  Keeping her safe includes keeping her--as far as it is within my power to do so--as seizure free as possible.  Along these lines, insisting that she eat at certain times--whether she's hungry or not--is a part of keeping her seizure free.  How can I explain it except to say that my child--like a child with gluten-sensitivity, diabetes, ADHD, or allergies--is on a special medical diet?  In order to control her epilepsy, my daughter needs to eat a certain amount of food of a certain kind at certain times (this is especially when she's expending extra energy with physical activity).   If she fails to adhere to her special diet, the frequency of her seizures increases quickly and dramatically.  My insisting on feeding her at the pool (even if she's not hungry) is aimed at giving her the best shot at being seizure free while at the pool.  Dealing with a special diet is not fun for either of us--but it is necessary.

Likewise, as far-fetched as it may seem, monitoring my daughter closely by calling out to her periodically as she stands in line at the water slide, is also medically necessary.  You see, sometimes one of my daughter's absence seizures fails to end.  Instead, it generalizes into a convulsive seizure; and this convulsive seizure, in turn, also fails to end.  When this happens the seizure--which becomes a medical emergency--must be ended with emergency rescue medication.  The longer the rescue medication is delayed, the harder the seizure is to stop; and the longer the medication is delayed, the greater the risk that she might fall over and hit her head on the concrete (which wouldn't be so good).  For these reasons, I can't afford to lose visual or auditory contact with my daughter for more than a few minutes at a time.  Calling out to her periodically (and having her answer) lets me know she's still conscious and capable of responding--and thus not having a seizure.  It's embarrassing for both her and I, but ultimately it's less embarrassing than constantly shadowing her while she's out of the water; and less dangerous (and ultimately embarrassing) than the possibility of missing several minutes of a big seizure.  Should a big seizure strike while she's out of my sight, I still want to have time enough to be able to walk or carry her (quietly, asking for assistance, if necessary) to somewhere private before the full force of the big convulsive seizure hits.  I want to avoid the potentially embarrassing situation for her of having a protracted seizure in full public view.

All this must sound daunting.  And it is.  But it's also worth it. So far we've been really, really fortunate--my daughter has yet to have had an observable absence or grand mal seizure while at the pool.  That's extraordinary.  It's taken a lot of hard work on diet, routine, supplements, and medicine to get to this point--the point at which my daughter can be seizure free at the pool for several hours.

My daughter deserves to be perceived as more than "that girl with epilepsy."  She is first and foremost, herself.

In fact, it can't have escaped your notice as you peered over the top of your book trying to figure out what our deal was, that my daughter soon had your own daughter--whom she had never met before--and several other children following her around the pool, eagerly participating in her games.  My child is a child bursting with personality, a natural leader who marches to the beat of her own drummer; a creative, friendly, self-confident, fun-loving, inclusive child whose enthusiasm for life is infectious.

The child you observed IS my child.   The fact that she suffers from epilepsy is irrelevant--except as it might explain my own "helicopter parenting" behavior.

It would be easy enough to change your judgments of me simply by broadcasting--to you and others at the pool--the fact of my daughter's epilepsy. And while my daughter's epilepsy and how it affects our lives is something I'm am determined to discuss here (while giving my daughter a pseudonym to protect privacy)--so as to educate and promote Epilepsy Awareness--talking about epilepsy is NOT something I'll be doing at the pool.  In fact, I won't even be telling the lifeguard at the pool--about my daughter's epilepsy unless I need his assistance to help rescue my daughter.

It's a free and informed choice I make--to make it appear that there is something "wrong" with me rather than broadcast to everyone at the pool--casually and coolly--the reasons I watch my daughter so carefully.

You see, my daughter deals constantly with the monster that is Epilepsy.  We go to the pool to escape the Monster of Epilepsy.  To forget that it stalks her and robs her of too many things that she loves in life--everything from her favorite foods to the ability to be alone for five minutes without supervision.  We go to the pool to allow her to be a normal child having a normal afternoon doing normal childhood things.  We go to the pool to forget that Epilepsy's a part of her life.  Sometimes it's hard even at the pool to forget Epilepsy with me looking over her shoulder from 10-15 feet away, but she has so much fun and the beauty of life pokes through so much that she does manage to forget.

And when she does, it's a triumph.  It's a triumph when she's in her element, having fun with other children.  When she's playing Marco Polo or diving for rings on the bottom of the pool or sitting under the "mushroom" with water dripping on her head, or pretending to be a seal in some make-believe game with her BFF and her new friends.  When she's doing these things at the pool the world has become a beautiful wondrous place again and childhood once again magically sweet.

And when I'm standing there in the sunshine on a perfect day and my daughter climbs the platforms onto one of the two pool slides--the smaller one or her favorite, the big "scary" one--and comes barreling down one of them screaming at the top of her lungs in mock fear only to plunge into the water, and bob up again a moment later smiling from ear to ear with joy, it's almost more happiness than I can bear.

Sometimes at the pool as I stand there watching my daughter I think about the way things appear to be and the way things really are.  My child's epilepsy and the special challenges that come with it are hidden.  We are fighting an intense battle everyday--even at the pool, but that battle is hidden.  We are fighting the battle for a normal childhood filled with normal childhood things.  Bravery is a relative thing.  It's ironic that my bravery and letting go look exactly like fear and control.  It's only my daughter's ability to bow to the routines that allow her to be seizure free enough to enjoy a day at the pool.  Sometimes I smile simply because of the ironies of the situation.  Things look exactly the opposite of the way they really are.

And if you must know....it's then that I stand there idiotically smiling at the fact that my normal child is doing normal things.  And it's pure bliss.  I'm so full of happiness I think I'll just burst.  Tomorrow might bring a seizure and wailing and sadness and impairments, but for today, the world is perfect, my child is perfect, and life is deliciously, wondrously, absolutely perfect.

I just wish you understood enough about epilepsy (because our society had educated you) that you'd recognize the clues and, without me saying a word, suspect that I'm a mom of a child with epilepsy.  Not because I am bothered by your judgments, but because then you too might smile and share my and my child's joy and triumph in just having a normal day at the pool filled with normal childhood things.

If you could share our joy, it would make our joy just all the more amazing.

So you see, sometimes the people before you aren't at all what you think they are.  Sometimes you don't have them all figured out.  Sometimes it simply isn't at all what you think...

Be kind to everyone you meet and try not to judge, because truly, you don't know what battles others are fighting.  Sometimes the person whose behavior appears the most fearful is really being wildly brave.  And sometimes the person who seems controlling actually is actually practicing the art of letting go.  And sometimes the most normal of normal things is really the most joyfully wondrously extraordinary thing of all.  After all, context is everything.  And missing information sometimes changes everything

And sometimes apparent Helicopter Moms turn out to be Epilepsy Moms giving their child the gift of a normal day at the pool.