Helicopter Moms: Attached at the hip

(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.)

SKOKIE, Ill. Nov. 5 (UPI) -- My younger daughter turned 13 during the nadir of tourism in Israel when many people were too afraid of suicide bombers to visit.

When she learned there would be an organization's all-but-free mission to Israel in celebration of Israeli Independence Day, she pleaded her case daily until Dad and I agreed she and I could go.

I warned her she would be the only kid on the trip -- indeed, I'd probably be the youngest adult in the group. She didn't care; she had to go. (Predictably, she proved the easiest of our group: personable, helpful, indefatigably sweet. The tour's organizer pulled us aside toward the end to thank us for never having complained about anything.)

Dad worried about terrorism. Our daughter promised him she and I would be attached at the hip.

Except when we were in our hotel room, we were always, literally, beside one another. If anything were to happen, I would throw my body atop hers. They'd have to go through me first.

As we prepared to leave our hotel in Tel Aviv, the management slipped a note under our door. An Israeli's cramped English handwriting thanked us for our patronage.

We were moved to tears. Just a year or two before, one would have had to make hotel reservations months in advance for anywhere in Israel. Now, proud Israelis operating near-empty establishments individually thanked every customer.

It was more of the same in Jerusalem. Our group stayed in a gorgeous ghost town of a hotel. The staff, accustomed to attending with characteristically cheerful Israeli rudeness to a packed house, continually vacuumed immaculate carpets and polished spotless windows and floor-to-ceiling glass walls and doors. Chocolates and rose petals were left on our pillows, and towels were fashioned into whimsical shapes -- how the mighty (we hoped only temporarily) had fallen!

Toward the end of our trip, on Sabbath afternoon, lunch was served on the hotel's veranda. Every patron must have been there, as the area was filled with people clearly settled in for the afternoon.

The place was noisy as everyone held forth on his political views simultaneously. No exaggeration. Watch Israeli talking-head shows. Everyone's mouth moves at the same time, but miraculously, each manages to pick up what the others are saying.

My daughter and I were lunching with the crowd and participating in our table's conversation. Although we had been accustomed to our intense togetherness all week, she must have forgotten herself momentarily as she excused herself to go to the restroom. I, too, must have lost my mind -- having been absorbed completely by the chatter -- as I merely acknowledged her announcement and immediately returned to the argument.

Yes, I let my child go to the washroom by herself.

A few minutes later, there was a loud boom.

Immediate silence on the patio.

I groped for my daughter and realized she wasn't there. While everyone else sat frozen, I leaped to my feet.

Wild with panic, I darted through the crowd, damning myself for having let down my guard. I feared I would have to creep away and stage my own private suicide bombing, as I dared not return home to Dad without his baby alive and intact.

I came upon her rubbing a large red bump on her forehead and developing a monstrous headache.

She explained that she was racing back from the washroom (having remembered her promise not to part from me), and had crashed into an overly-polished glass wall, thinking it was open air. She said she couldn't believe what a loud sound it made. Had I heard it? she wanted to know.