Shattered

H
elicopter Mom
is a phrase that must’ve been coined to describe my mom. I am convinced of this. Oh, she would never admit to hovering or overprotecting or smother-mothering me to the point of near asphyxiation. If anyone suggested such a thing, her response would be to flash an effervescent yet innocent smile and say, “It’s simply because I love Cleo so much, and I only get one chance to be a good mom.” And thanks to Mom’s sunny disposition and sweet spirit, most would excuse her bad behavior.

Even I used to excuse her. Like the time she was the only parent to show up at the middle school assembly where ex-cons were talking to students about “stranger danger.” I was a little red-faced then, but I knew she meant well. And after she heard their sincere presentation and was assured that they weren’t actually using the assembly as an opportunity to pick out their next young victims—namely, me—she went home and made brownies. I forgave her then... and many times afterward.

But the older I got, the less tolerant I grew. And now, as a healthy, normal seventeen-year-old girl who wants some independence, here is what I know for sure: If I look over my shoulder, my mom will most likely be there. Lurking somewhere on the sidelines or in the shadows, she will be watching (aka spying) to ensure that “nothing goes wrong in my life.”

It’s not exactly that she doesn’t trust me. It’s just that she’s certain without her constant attention, supervision, intervention, and assistance, my life will be completely derailed by some invisible force intent on destroying me.

“What about prayer and trusting God?” I’ve challenged her from time to time. My mom’s a churchgoing Christian who firmly believes her Bible, and I’m always hoping the faith track might gain me some ground.

“I
do
pray and trust God,” she’s told me. “But I can’t expect him to do everything, Cleo. God gave me the important job of being
your mother
, and that means I look out for your best interests.” And so it goes.

But on a Friday morning in mid-April, I am ready to draw a line in the sand with my mom. After all, I’m nearly eighteen, I’m a senior, and next year I will be going away to college. So I inform her that my best friend, Lola, and I plan to attend a concert this evening.

“What kind of concert?” she asks with a look of alarm.

“A
Christian
concert.” I hope the emphasis on
Christian
will reassure her.

“Oh...” She nods like she’s processing this. “So is it at church then?”

“No... it’s at the Coliseum.”

Her brown eyes get bigger.
“In the city?”

“
Yes, Mom, as far as I know, the Coliseum is still in the city.”

“How are you getting there?” Her brow creases. “I hoped maybe you’d let me drive Dad’s car.”

She laughs like this is really funny. “Oh, Cleo, you’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m totally serious.”

“You honestly think I’d let you drive Dad’s car, or any car for that matter,
into the city at night?”

With clenched teeth, I shove my notebook into my bag. I was determined not to lose my temper when I brought up the concert. I wanted to show Mom just how mature I am, how I can be trusted to do something like this. But the truth is, I want to scream right now.

“I suppose I could go with you to the concert,” she says in a sweet tone, like this generous offer is going to make my day.

“Right, Mom.” I scowl at her. “Seriously, you need to get a life.”