Helicopter Mama

In our ongoing domestic drama, the cast of secondary characters has changed, but the script remains the same. Our kids, off in college, have been replaced by my in-laws, who have just moved into a nearby retirement home. My husband and I are still the protagonists, and we know our roles well: I become overinvolved, he detaches.

Just as I was the one who volunteered in the kids’ classrooms, I am the one who drops in at the Redwoods to see how my in-laws are faring.

Not so well, it turns out. Their assigned buddies stood them up for a dinner date. When they ask in the dining hall if this seat is taken, other residents say “Yes,” and decline to make room for them. More often than not, the seat in question remains empty.

I listen sympathetically to their tales of woe, remembering our move to Marin when our daughters were two and four. Ally, the littlest, was napping when we locked the door of our old house for the last time. She awoke in a strange place, crying, “I want my home!” After a week at her new preschool, the older and wiser Emma said somberly “I don’t know who my friends are anymore.”

At least with kids you can maneuver them into camaraderie by hauling them to the park or signing them up for pee-wee soccer. If all else fails, there is always preschool, where at least you get a few hours’ break from their woebegone faces.

But how do you arrange a play date for people pushing ninety? Should I talk to the director the way I would my daughters’ teachers so she can find a special friend who might coax my in-laws over the hump of adjustment?

“We need to do something,” I fret to my husband. “Do you think I should call the social worker?” I have gone from being a helicopter parent to a helicopter daughter-in-law.

“Maybe in a few weeks,” he replies without interest.

A few weeks! Typical, indifferent male. And they’re his parents. Why should I care if he doesn’t?

So I do nothing besides visit and assure them that things will improve. I try to remember that our second daughter did better with my benign neglect than our first daughter did with my hovering.

In less than two weeks, my in-laws regale us with tales of the fascinating 90-year-old poet they have met, the peace vigils they attend every Friday, the screenings and discussion of Michael Moore movies.

Recently, we planned to stop by on our way back from a weekend getaway. As we made our way through the city, the cell phone rang. It was my mother-in-law, telling us they couldn’t get together with us after all because they were having cocktails with their friends before attending a lecture.

As usual, my husband is not really detached–just highly perceptive.