In the third of our series on parenting styles Robin Barfield asks if we’re tempted to hover over our children, not allowing them space to make mistakes and grow into independence
You have probably heard of helicopter parenting - the idea that parents hover over every move their children make, ready to swoop in and protect them from harm. This style has been made even more possible by smartphones: I can see where my children are at any moment. Is he going to get home in time for dinner? Why is she in the park when she should be at dance class? I just want to check that they both made it home from school.
This style of parenting is well documented, and it’s quite a provocative and pointed term—no one wants to be a helicopter parent, and we can all think of others who seem to fall into this trap. The neurosis that comes from the anxiety of wanting the best for our children often leads us to prevent them from having any genuine freedom—even the freedom to come to limited harm. I can see this in my own heart. I remember standing over my toddlers, hyper-aware of any hard edge they might fall on and hurt themselves. There’s a good kind of risk awareness and a natural desire to protect our children.
helicopter parenting misunderstands the nature of life as God has ordered it: our children are designed to grow increasingly independent of us
Of course, we want to protect our children—I cannot imagine the horror of living with a preventable tragedy or an avoidable accident. And with our 24-hour news cycle, such concerns are hard to ignore. We’re constantly reminded of what could happen through the catastrophes that befall others. But we also need to prepare our children—prepare them for when we are no longer there to hover over them, for when they need to grow wings and fly on their own. Prepare them for a time when they won’t need our protection anymore.
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As I reflected on this, it struck me that there are two ways this approach reveals a muddled theology and a spiritual tremor in my own heart. First, it comes from a desire to retain control—I’ve forgotten that there is a Father in heaven who loves my child infinitely more than I do. While he has given me responsibility for my child, he holds ultimate power and care. Second, it misunderstands the nature of life as God has ordered it: our children are designed to grow increasingly independent of us and more dependent on him. As I watched my son grow from an utterly helpless baby into a strapping young man, I saw that he needed me in very different ways. This means we must gradually let go. As they grow older, we must begin to wisely give them increasing amounts of freedom.
Chris Kiesling, in his excellent book Discipleship for Every Stage of Life, suggests that a better image might be that of a satellite. A satellite home is a safe place to return to when needed, but it lets go when the “lunar object” needs to fly. As children grow in their ability to make choices and have adventures for longer periods of time, they can return and talk about their mistakes and experiences.
A satellite parent is not absent. They are present—but it’s about how they are present
Kiesling notes that research suggests one of the healthiest factors for teenagers is a relationship in which they feel safe disclosing problems, issues, mistakes, and errors—as well as successes and achievements. Helicopter parenting can hinder this. Not because the parent already knows, but because the teenager is desperate to pull away from a restrictive environment. One of the issues with smartphones is that, as parents, we often don’t know what our children are doing on them, and we’re constantly warned about the dangers. But this isn’t a new phenomenon—my own parents were unaware of many of the things I got up to as a child. I remember my mum being unable to fall asleep until I had returned home from an evening out with friends. This, too, is part of growing up and discovering our own world.
A satellite parent is not absent. They are present—but it’s about how they are present. Are they a safe and open place to unload issues? A refuge when needed? A place to bind up wounds, pick up the pieces, and bring healing when the world has bumped and bruised?
These two models revolve around the idea of control—how much do we retain, and how much do we release? How does that shift as our children grow? Ultimately, control isn’t about our children; it’s about us. It’s about our hearts and our struggles.
Are you a helicopter—or a satellite?
