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This is a question Helicopter Parents

Back when young ScaryDuck worked in the Dole office rather than simply queuing in it, he had to deal with a claimant brought in by his mum. She did all the talking. He was 40 years old.

Have you had to deal with over-protective parents? Get your Dad to tell us all about it.

(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:13)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Get your priorities right...
Walking down the street one day, on a main road in a quiet little town, a toddler toddles by out of the lane in front of me going at an impressive lick for such a young lad... straight out onto the main road.

So I skip out and take him by the hand.

'Hello Mate! Where did you come from, eh?'

I lead him back up the road he came from, and spot a house with a slide and toys in the front garden, with the gate wide open. So we toddle up to the door and I give a knock.

Some foul harridan in a tracksuit opens the door and looks quizzically at us for a second.

'He'd got out of the garden and was on the main road - so I've brought him back. It looks like he managed to open the gate, clever lad.'
'OK, I'm going - but you want to get that gate sorted out.'

I was fairly calm though the whole thing, because I just thought - people are protective about their kids, you know? Of course they get a bit emotional...

And then I thought about it as I wandered into town - hang on a minute... you leave your kid in the front garden, you don't care that he goes walkabout on the main road... and you're scared of the Paedos? Get your priorities right - he's in much more danger from having a shit mum like you who's going to leave him to his own devices on the street than he is from the scary paedos... daft bint.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 17:26, 22 replies)
Have a pearoast from the last time this question was asked...
My parents seperated when I was about 4 or 5. I went with my mum and she moved back to a remote island off the west coast of scotland where her family lived. She didnt work and was skint. We lived in a mobile home/caravan thing which was a good 5 miles from the nearest other kids. My mum doesnt drive. I spent years there, just me and my mum, playing on my own. I never had ANY friends as I never socialised at all after school.
My parents got back together and returned to the mainland. I was looking forward to being near other kids, but they moved into a farmhouse in the middle of no-where and again I had to make do with my own company. All the years there, I can remember 2 occasions where other kids came to see me and I never went to see other kids at their houses. Any kind of after-school activity or club was not allowed.
Eventually, they moved to a house in a small village, a house which overlooked a football pitch and large play park. Loads of other kids playing all day, woopee. Except my mum wouldnt let me go out for any length of time in case I was abducted. I had to "check in" with her every 15 minutes whenever I went out anywhere. This basically tied me to a very tight circle around the house. All the other kids could play around the village all day (this was 20 years ago so parenting was generally quite relaxed regarding kids being outside, and the village was a great place for kids to grow up) and regarded me as some kind of freak as I had to keep running home. Bullying ensued.
My mum didnt seem to think it strange that I was a total outcast and spent all my time in my room watching the other kids have fun. Becoming a teenager made no difference, I had to tell her exactly where I was going, who I would be with, and when I would be home. She usually over-ruled and gave me a much earlier time to be home by, and she called the police a couple of times when I was late by 10 minutes or so, and would be in real tears of anguish, certain I had been kidnapped, molested and murdered.

Going to a party? no chance.
Staying over at a friends house? no chance.
Joining the cub-scouts? no chance.

Due to her rediculous over-protectiveness I grew up as a total social reject with no confidence and a complete inability to make friends. Now Im 31 years old, Im still shy, quiet and uncomfortable in crowds.
She has an alzheimers-like wasting brain disease and can barely remember the names of any other family members but she still asks where I am and when I will be back every day. She will probably be dead by the end of the year and I cant say im too bothered to be very honest. I love her, but I think her over-protectiveness ruined the formative stages of my life.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 17:25, 8 replies)
The sad truth of parenting
...everyone else thinks you're doing it wrong.

One of the most striking things I noticed on becoming a parent is that everyone -- everyone -- has an opinion on how best to raise your kids.

Friends, family, complete strangers...they're all quietly (or not) filing away little nuggets to gasp and gossip over. It doesn't seem to matter whether or not the person has had children of their own, you can guarantee that they'll at the very least be tutting to themselves at whatever it is you're doing. But often enough they'll just come right out with it.

You might think that by spending a lot of time with them you're being reassuring and attentive. You're wrong: in fact you're being over-protective, you're spoiling them, you're not giving them space to develop their personality.

Perhaps you think that by backing off and letting them do their own thing that you'll avoid such criticisms? Oh no, a laissez-faire approach is neglect, you're letting them get away with everything, they're out of control!

Try to maintain some of their childish innocence, sense of wonder? You're sheltering them from the reality of the world, let them grow up!

Try to teach them reading, writing, basic maths? You're hothousing them! Let them be children!

Try to keep them clean...you're stunting their immune system. Watch as they coat themselves in mud, eat snails...what kind of parent are you?

In the end, the only conclusion that I've come to about parenting is that there simply is no right answer. Read all the books and studies you want, watch Supernanny all fucking day if you like, there is no magical one-size-fits-all approach to bringing up your kids. They are people, not robots to be programmed or pets to be trained, and as long as you bear that in mind then chances are you won't go far wrong.

Wait, what's this...oh sorry, I appear to have mistakenly worn my rant hat today.

*makes nob joke*
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 17:15, 12 replies)
Kamlesh the SUPERSTUD
During my first year at Uni one of my housemates, Kamlesh, came out with a line that would dog him for the next three years. It's how he acquired his nickname, Superstud and - quite possibly - earned him the highest level of piss-taking that's ever occured in the entire history of the human race since we splurged out the sea somewhere on gloopy little leg-fins and collectively said: "Fuck this sea bollocks for a game of soliders, lets go and see what a fucking tree looks like!"

Sat round in the SU we were talking the usual utter girl-related shit. I'm explaining how its possible for a girl to have an inny and an outy nipple, one of each, and that the girl I copped off with the previous night was sporting this weird chestacular manifestation. I explained how it scared the living crap out of me.

Kamlesh pipes up: "Bollocks! No woman's got an inny and an outy!"

"Pray, do tell more, Kammy you cunt," I suggest.

"I'm a fucking superstud and I know that's not fucking possible!" said Kamlesh.

We gazed at him. It was a drink-stopping moment. Time almost stood still. Kamlesh was about eight stone, built like a stringy streak of piss, and had the worst mullet and prebubescent 'tash combination you'd ever see in your life. He looked like an emaciated Asian hillbilly.

"You're a superstud?" asked one of my other housemates incredulously.

"Yeah!" said Kamlesh. And then he did it. Then it came. The line. The sweet line. And Kamlesh's university life would never be the same again. It was like throwing raw meat to a pack of rabid lions. "I am a fuckin' superstud... my mum says so!!!"

It took a fraction of a second for this to sink in, then we burst out laughing. And Kamlesh spent the next three years trying to convince us that he had not, in point of fact and at some time in the past, fucked his own mother.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 17:04, 9 replies)
Went to Thailand for a month, inbox got full on email and had no mobile phone (this was back in 2000).

I wasn't recieving email replies due to unaware inbox was full, so stopped sending emails after a week into a month long trip.

Parents reaction to lack of email replies from me = report me missing to the UK consulate in Thailand, and phone up my girlfriend asking if she'd heard anything - making her also a bit concerned.

They were a nice suprise waiting for me at the airport, and then I had to go to a Police Station and take myself of the national missing persons list.

That is all.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 16:57, 2 replies)
Hell hath no fury...
My Mum was a most unusual parent. Evidence of this can be seen by all who have met me. She was liberal-minded to a fault, in fact so liberal the only option I had for teenage rebellion was organised religion. Weird how that one works out. But still, by and large she did alright in raising such a sensitive soul as myself. In short, she was an incredibly laid-back parent. But by fuck did she have a temper. Somewhat worse than a pissed-off female rancor when they've got the painters in. I've seen it a few times, and it's an awesome sight. Here's the story of one of those times.

It was the end of school day, and I would have been about 12 years old. And back then I was a bit wet behind the ears. In fact, that doesn't quite cover it. Try "so moist it's boggy". Which of course attracted the pirahna-like attentions of one of the more physically communicative young ne'er do-wells in my year. Although when I say physically communicative, he'd be as likely to nut you in the face as say "Hi".

So, I'm walking to the school gate, and I spot my Mum, ice-cream in hand, and she'd come to pick me up from school, meaning I didn't have to deal with the cerebrally-deficient plebs I was usually forced to spend my time with on my way home. Result. Of course, these things never quite work out like that. The antagonist of our story, unbeknownst to me, was running up behind me, and had leapt in the air, and was descending with fists drawn aiming at the back of my neck. In short, the bastard dropped me with a flying donkey punch. It's not surprising I fell to the ground like a freshly-shot antelope. Not the most pleasant of endings to a school day.

However, Mr Idiot hadn't counted on Mum seeing the whole thing. And she had. And saw red. And the temper manifested itself like the wrath of an angry God. Odin, Zeus and Amun-Ra would have been quaking in their boots. She had set off at a run across the school field, and caught up with Mr Donkey-Puncher, and had chased him round the field, swearing like a trooper, and had eventually picked him up by his jacket, and was shaking him. Quite roughly, in fact.

And then, she came to. And noticed herself surrounded by a bunch of grinning, slightly scared teenagers. And holding up a now very scared former bully. Who had developed a mysterious damp patch on his trousers.

Go Mum!
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 16:53, 20 replies)
Bed Time
My parents were always pretty strict on bedtimes- before the age of 11 I would be in bed at 8 o'clock most nights.*

However, I also have a younger brother, who is 6 years younger than me. Now, our Sunday night 'treat' would be to watch the ITV drama/soap Heartbeat**, which my sister and I loved, and we would be allowed to watch even though it finished at the dizzyingly late time of 9 o'clock! Get in!

One small snag though, the little terror of a little bother (o what wit!) who would insist that he be allowed to watch it too, despite clearly having no idea of what was going on due to his tender years of age (5). What to do? Well clearly my parents were not going to let him up much past his usual bedtime (7 o'clock), and whilst 8 o'clock was borderline acceptable, allowing him to stay up until 9 was certainly not going to happen!

However, ITV came to the rescue through an unlikely saviour...the advert break! So Sunday night would go thus: we would all pile into our front room to watch Heartbeat at 8 o'clock. 15 minutes in the first advert break would kick in. We would all exclaim in loud voices what a great episode it was, and then 'go to bed', taking my brother with us. Then, with Blackadderesque cunning, my sister and I would come up with an excuse to go downstairs (normally to get a drink, he never twigged) and would happily watch the remainder of the program safe in the knowledge the brother was blissfully unaware of our diabolical slyness as he slept. The poor kid thought that Heartbeat was only 15 minutes long until he was 11 and found us out! Bless.

*I don't consider this to be a particularly bad thing, whilst obviously I moaned and wailed about this through my teeth at the time it definitely helped me to do well at school as I could keep my eyes open! Additionally the theme of early bed times is the only tenuous link to over protective parenting. Which isn't necessarily over protective parenting. No apologies for confusion or content. Trading standards have been informed. .

**I'm still not sure how I considered this to be a treat.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 16:52, 3 replies)
My gf's dad....
The first time I met him was on her doorstep where he asked me questions for twenty minutes to make sure I wasnt some passing vagrant or homosexical.
The fact that I'd arranged to come for the weekend, had flown over to meet my gf at Liverpool airport and she was standing next to me (on said door step) made it all the stranger.
I was also in my late 20's, smarty dressed from the office and had with me my briefcase and a suitcase. I thought one of these things might have given him a clue.

Turns out he's not just over protective - he's a psychopathic, homophobic, right-wing control freak.

So thats nice...
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 16:42, 4 replies)
My late Auntie
Bless her soul, was a bit barkers, like most of the women in my dad's side of the family. We were on holiday in Cornwall at Caravan Park, and my dad and my Uncle are sat in the club house having a couple of drinks, when the option of "Late Lock In" was offered. My dad was well up for this, but my Uncle not so much so, because he'd be in trouble with my Auntie. Cue the entire bar, ripping the piss out of him for being hen-pecked.

Roll forward about 10 hours, and me and my dad go into my Auntie's caravan, and my dad regails his sister about how everyone was taking the piss out of my Uncle for being hen-pecked.


I worry that even tho I'm a bloke, I'll turn batshit crazy like the rest of my dad's sisters!
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 16:31, 1 reply)
Bad influences?
I was never allowed to watch Power Rangers.

I think this was because I am a girl, and it wasn't considered girly. Also, it was 'too violent' because I was obviously going to start kicking the other children in the playground.

I wasn't allowed Pokemon Cards either because 'it's like gambling' and 'a waste of money.' I do agree with the second reason, but I managed to collect hundreds of them (shinies included!) by swapping rubbish ones friends gave me. I was a Pokemon master & didn't even spend any of my parent's money.

They cut my hair short, and for most of my life until the age of 11 I looked like a boy and was ALWAYS mistaken for one.
Perhaps they aren't overprotective, just weird.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 16:31, 3 replies)
My parents didn't buy a television until I was 21, as my mother felt it rotted the mind (she has a good point).

This of course meant that I would always go straight to my friend's house after school to indulge in a solid dose of children's TV, and whenever we visited my grandparents I would greet them with a request to turn the gogglebox on.

We weren't allowed to watch Sesame Street or Grange Hill though - the first was too American, and the second was a bad influence.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 16:12, 2 replies)
New Girlfriend
When I was 19, I started dating a girl named Rachel who I met down my local. We’d been seeing each other for about 3 weeks when I sensed there was a problem ‘between the sheets’. Rachel didn’t say as much, but I could sense it and there was an underlying doubt in my mind that she was not impressed with my sexual performance, so to speak. No matter what I tried, she didn’t seem satisfied, and I could tell that she was blatantly faking her moans and groans of pleasure. It hit me hard; I was only 19, my girlfriend thought I was useless in bed, and as the relationship progressed a few weeks further, I found it more of a chore to put in the effort when having sex as I knew that she wasn’t enjoying it. ‘If only she’d tell me or show me what she likes’ I thought to myself time and time again, ‘then this relationship would be perfect’.
I was in a position that I hadn’t found myself in before. I couldn’t go to my mates and ask for their advice; I had far too much male pride to do that, and I knew that if my suspicions should come out then they would rip the piss out of me non-stop. Knowing them, they would have offered to have a go on her themselves. I also couldn’t ask Rachel’s friends because, well, that would just be strange. Sitting in my room one night after I’d got back from Rachel’s house, I decided to go and talk to the only person that I thought would be able to give me advice; my Dad.
Now, this in itself was a big thing for me. We’d never had ‘the chat’, and we didn’t really talk about things like this with each other, apart from the odd ‘Don’t get many of them to the pound’ comment my Dad would make in the car when we drove past a busty female pedestrian. I inhaled deeply and went to the front room, where my Dad was watching the TV.

“Dad”, I said quietly. “I...erm...Can I talk to you about something?”

My Dad, eyes remaining transfixed on the TV, muttered “Yes” and so I began explaining to him in great detail about my fears; about how I didn’t think I was satisfying Rachel, about my constant worry that she’d leave me for someone else if I couldn’t please her in the bedroom and that I didn’t know what to do to make things better. It was a long outpouring of my feelings, and I had to check twice that my Dad was actually listening to me as he remained focused on the TV. After I’d finished, he finally looked at me,

“Son, you don’t need to worry about things like that”. He took a sip of his coffee before he continued, “What you need is a pillow.”

“A pillow?”, I was confused.

“Yes son, a pillow. When you’re doing the dirty, slip a pillow underneath her bum. Works all the time, you can’t fail to hit the spot, she’ll love it. Trust me, when I first started dating your mu..”

“THANKS DAD!” I cut him off before he could go any further and retired to bed optimistic about my future with Rachel. The following day was Friday, and we were going out for drinks before staying the night at my house.

Friday came and drinks were enjoyed. We had a good laugh and my sexual fears and frustrations temporarily disappeared. It wasn’t until the walk home that I started to get a bit nervous about doing the deed again, but my Dad’s words of advice the night before were still ringing in my ears. We eventually got home and I checked the front room to see if my parents were still up. There was no sign of them, so I assumed that they were in bed. Rachel and I headed upstairs, and being quite merry, it wasn’t long before we were kissing passionately, and undressing each other, whilst trying to keep quiet so that we didn’t wake my parents, who were asleep in the next room. Before I knew it, I was on top of Rachel’s perfect, naked body and thrusting away. As usual, I was getting nothing in response, so heeding my Dad’s advice, I reached for pillow. I withdrew temporarily, and lifted Rachel’s legs and pert bum off the bed, sliding the pillow under her. Within seconds I was back inside her sponge cavern and was starting to build up a nice rhythm. I then saw something that will stay with me to the day I die.

My Dad stealthly rolled out from under my bloody bed, gave me a quick thumbs up and crept, on all fours, out of my room. The thing that perplexed me the most was his grin – he looked so pleased that I’d done what he told me to do. It was enough to end my night’s action. I feigned a headache to Rachel (who fortunately didn’t witness any of this) and we went to sleep. All I could think of whilst I lay in bed was my Dad’s big, cheesy grin; like a Cheshire cat.

I got a lock on my room after that.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 16:11, 48 replies)
Apart from banning the A-team
as mentioned earlier, my parents were very, VERY open with us from quite a young age and, trust me, it can be just as bad...

One of my chores for earning my 75p a week pocket money was to empty the bins around the house. Due to my parents beliefs about being open about sex, it was apparently not seen as important for them to discreetly dispose of their used condoms, instead choosing to discard them openly into the bedroom waste basket.

Unfortunately, all the liberal, hippy bullshit in the world doesn't stop a small 10 year old brainmeat from freaking the fuck out at the sight of a sopping man-sheath. The bin was dropped to the floor and, upon impact, scattered it's contents across the carpet... including said semen-filled, silicon serpent.

I stared at it for a long, long time trying to decide whether to pick it up and put it back in the bin or just leave it for my parents to find. I had just about decided that it would be marginally less mortifying to wrap it up and move it than it would be to have my parents explain how 'natural' the whole thing was, when I heard someone coming up the stairs, panicked and threw it into the bin.

With. My. Bare. Hands.

You know the game you play with your friends when you're teens where because you've touched a girls hand and she's touched her boob, you've technically touched her boob?
Well, shockingly, I never mentioned to my friends that, by that rationale, I've technically fingered my mum.

(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 16:00, 11 replies)
An ex of mine was very close to her parents
She'd keep a photo of them on her bedside table. It was very odd hammering away at my girlfriend's sticky axewound only to turn my head and see her parents grinning back at me, almost as if they were gazing lovingly at my hair arse as it jack-hammered up and down. And the terrible thing was that her mum was pretty fit. The sort of busty wench you'd expect to see on a Carry On film, or in low-class porn featuring a bathtub filled with beans and a shitload of cold custard.

One time as I shot my shit, with toes curled, I shouted: "JULIE!!!"

My girlfriend then punched me square on the jaw and started crying before I'd even finished the vinegar strokes.

My girlfriend's name was Emma.

Her mum's name was Julie...
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 16:00, Reply)
Even though I'm knocking on 40
...after visiting my sister and her brood, I often leave to chimes of the well-worn instruction, "Fasten your coat up Reverend" in tribute to our late mother. Sniff.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:55, Reply)
Family holiday
I'm 24, married with a mortgage, and thought those apron strings were long since cut with some oversized ceremonial scissors, but in 3days time wife and I are being taken on a family holiday with my mum and dad, (a sort of nostalgic spanish apartment for a week like all those years long gone) and I fully expect mother dearest to keep an eye on my drinkin habits,(un)healthy eating and mayb even rubbing sun tan lotion into those hard to reach areas! Suppose it will give mrs cardiosurgeon a break from mothering me, or could they join forces and create some sort of uncontrollable beast hellbent on telling me to "sit in the shade for a while, you're looking like a lobster, that'll be sore in the morning!"

Length.....below average but bronzed by the end of next week
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:50, Reply)
well my dad has sadly passed away now. He wasn't really a helicopter, but he often made me play with his chopper.

sincerely M Jackson Jnr
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:40, 3 replies)
My dad was a chinook and my mum a sea king.

love Budgie
(too obscure?)

(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:39, 10 replies)
Too sunny to work
I'm going home to interrogate the kids about their day in school.

(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:34, 1 reply)
In retrospect they were pretty cool
In reality, I guess my parents were pretty cool…
During my formative years (7-11) I was educated in the West coast of Scotland in a school run by Jesuits (the SS of the RC community).
The secular teachers were out and out bastards.

At the age of 7, it was not uncommon for me to come home to the question of “How many of the belt did you get today?” and for my response to be 14, 15 or 16… Indeed Miss Boyle (I hope the bitch is dead now) used to issue the ferula (sp?) for every word spelt incorrectly, every mental arithmetic sum wrong, chewing your pencil, scratching your ear… anything that satisfied the psychotic witch’s sense of discipline.

On one occasion, I could not account for the number of strokes that I had received that day.

I did not know what was to transpire as a result of that.

My parents had been waiting for the day when I could not balance the figures. They contacted the SJ headmaster instructed him to attend our home.

When he arrived, it was pointed out to him that whilst they felt that the discipline had been excessive and over-enthusiastic, they now challenged the ethos of the school on the basis of the value in chastising a child if they cannot remember what the punishment is for.

He was told in no uncertain terms that any further abuse of their role (in parentis locus) would lead to legal action (if not his arse being whipped in public).

My parents were really quite cool… They weren’t soft… my mum was a teacher with her own tawse and that did effin hurt!!

Thank you for this question… I’ve never really thought about them in that light before.
But it has brought back memories of that bloody school… So I’ll post another one later
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:27, Reply)
It's a shame my folks weren't hovering around me
and were, instead, hovering around the bar. At least they're not annoying me now.

Maddie x
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:22, 4 replies)
I'm 32, I work in IT and I live with my parents...
... "yes, I do online dating."

Got divorced (well getting divorced) since a year ago. It's slow progress. Unfortunately every penny I have is tied up in the house my ex is living in and as she's a mong with money it's taken her a year to actually reach the position I stated on day one of "You won't qualify for a mortgage in your own name to buy me out of the house.".

SO, for the last year I've been living with my parents... for the first time since I was 18. It's a VERY weird feeling when my Mum insists on giving me a kiss/hug each morning I go to work just like I'm off to school.

Thing is, I'm getting used to it now and wonder if I'll cope when hopefully before Christmas I can buy my own place and have to do my own laundry again....
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:21, 12 replies)
"Helicopter Parents"...
...huh? Is it in reference to the fact that they're always hovering around you?
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:20, 3 replies)
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:19, Reply)
those pesky kids
as a veteran paedophile I often have to deal with overprotective parents. Cant a man have some fun these days!
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:19, Reply)
joseph fritzl
How overprotective can you get?
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:17, 2 replies)
1st....doh! 3rd!
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:16, Reply)
second :-(
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:16, Reply)
Erm, 3rd? maybe?

#EDIT: First! Frickin woo!

My Mum wouldn't let me watch The A-team or Roland Rat when I was wee, due to the fact they were apparently evil... I wasn't allowed Coco Pops for breakfast either :(

Perhaps I'll think of something funnier later on... or perhaps not.
(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:16, 4 replies)

This question is now closed.

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