Helicopter Moms: Changing the formula of the mother's milk

VALENCIA, Calif., Dec. 21 (UPI) --Let's face it. Not every member of "The Greatest Generation" returned from saving the world to become a great parent. Many were not good at it.

When Johnny came marching home (from WWII), or Henry, or in my dad's case, George, it was via Mason General Hospital on Long Island, N.Y., with a nasty case of "battle fatigue." They didn't have the techniques or meds to treat the condition effectively. And I suspect when measured against the image of Audie Murphy, my dad's thousand-yard stare and incessant body shake were an embarrassment to authorities as well, so they told him to snap out of it and sent him home to my mother who was waiting with a hot bath and warm food.

He became a serial, raging, emotional terrorist and my mother his accomplice in inflicting fear to keep him relatively placated -- and to keep him from smacking around my brother, who came along in 1946 and me in 1951.

My mother and father were first-generation Americans, imbued with cultural imperatives of previous generations schlepped like rope-bound luggage by their own immigrant parents.

Those imperatives were based upon experiences at the hand of any Cossack, jihadist or Mel Gibson of the era who wanted my ancestors removed from the face of the earth.

Rule one? Simple: Stay alive at all costs.

Rule two: Eat. Eat more. Eat again.

Other rules followed in downgraded degrees: stay warm; put on another jacket, a scarf, boots. And whatever you do, don't. Don't do anything that might infringe on rule No. 1. Don't run. Don't climb. Don't play. Don't do anything remotely dangerous. Don't eat strange food. Don't go out of my sight. Ever. I was virtually held hostage until both parents died.

This kind of smothering has an identifier, one I both embrace for its cultural essence and deeply resent because it is mocked by a gentile community that doesn't understand its underpinnings. Although employed by both sexes, the smothering is done by a person known as the "Jewish Mother."

If the maternal concern is doled out in more reasonable proportions, the current term, "helicopter mom" is applied: a more distant, gentle supervision from afar. (To me it conjures up a quiet, pursed lipped gentile female tsking over a strapping, square-jawed son who forgot to take his helmet to football practice. By the way, when was the last time you went to a high school football game and heard it was a guy named Liebowitz running for a TD?)

I was talking with a friend of mine about how she and I were raised, and she mentioned it was important for our generation to "change the formula of the mother's milk," meaning it was up to us to change our behavior toward our kids so we wouldn't repeat the mistakes we believed our parents made. I pondered this, hemmed and hawed until one day I noticed I had been channeling my mother's index finger and my father's voice.

I went into therapy soon thereafter and didn't come out for seven years. Through diligence, the formula of the mother's milk did change. Now, my father's voice, less gruff, uses a wider vocabulary, my mother's finger is manicured and points less, and there is reason where fear once prevailed.

But my kids' friends know I'll feed them when they walk in the door -- whether they like it or not.

(Editor's note: Sometimes it's hard to tell whether you're tackling parenthood in the 21st century -- or being tackled by it. This is the latest in a series of reflections by UPI writers.)