Snowplow parenting

By Jeff Long

Evolution doesn't need an adjective. When the word is uttered, people seem to know what is meant. Properly, though, there ought to be a modifier. Folks mean "species" evolution, the notion that all species are related and gradually change over time. Human beings, long ago, used to be something else. That's a truncated explanation but essentially an accurate one. Using the word tends to introduce discomfort into conversation. Most people in my circle are accepting of the idea but a dwindling number still develop heart palpitations. My wife once had a science teacher in junior high who made her sit on the floor for asking a question about evolution: "If you think you come from monkeys, I'll treat you like a monkey." Somehow the man kept his job.

There are other kinds of evolution that can also induce mental dyspepsia. There Is technological evolution. My late father-in-law, a mechanical engineer, used to own two slide rules. He got them in the 1940s after World War II and kept them in beautiful velvet cases. Slide rules helped get the Apollo 13 astronauts home after their spacecraft exploded in the spring of 1970. These items have long gone the way of the dinosaurs. In 1976, while this author was finishing high school, Texas Instruments came out with a hand-held calculator. Very expensive at the time. Now, a device capable of perfectly satisfactory equations can be purchased at any dollar store. Any smartphone can do the same thing. I've used slide rules but found them difficult. People of the World War II and silent generations may mourn their passing, however -- and if so, we can affirm them in their grief.

Another evolution, not species, not technological, has occurred right before our eyes. Helicopter parenting has given way to something called "snowplow" parenting -- but the latter, dear friends, can be found in the pages of the Old Testament. Read on, please.

A helicopter parent is a mother or father who will not let a child out of sight, even for a moment. Hovering, flitting around Johnny or Susie in all their activities. The whirling blades of attention are forever present. My own parents never knew where I was after school, on weekends, and especially in the summertime. They knew I was somewhere on my bicycle but had no real idea of my exact location. "Just be home when your dad gets home for supper," was our instruction. Somehow, I survived. I'm not naive nor nostalgic. The 1960s and '70s were a different time. Children get kidnapped and murdered today. Shootings at school seem commonplace in the 21st century. It seems ludicrous now, but my high school once had a rifle club that shot live ammunition in the gymnasium. This author was in that club. Things had to change -- and they did. Helicopter parenting may be the overreaction to what we perceive, usually accurately, as a scary society.

Today, parents with means have turned to snowplow parenting. Parents who have the money can clear most obstacles for their children. You've read about the recent college bribery scandal. Fifty people, including a couple of well-known Hollywood actresses, have been charged with fraud. They paid bribes to secure admission to elite colleges for Johnny and Susie. These ultrawealthy moms and dads are, as "The Week" magazine put it in its March 29 editions, "like snowplows, machines chugging ahead, clearing any obstacles in their child's path to success, so that they don't have to encounter failure, frustration, or lost opportunities."

The first snowplow parent in the Bible is probably Rebekah, the mother of Jacob and Esau. The story is told in Genesis chapters 25-28. Unhappy that her favorite son, Jacob, was not going to win his father's blessing -- and the largest share of the family inheritance that went with it -- Rebekah engineers a deception worthy of any 21st century snowplow mom. She encourages Jacob to deceive his nearly-blind father by pretending to be Esau. The ruse is successful. Rebekah ruthlessly "snowplowed" the way to success for her Jacob. The price Jacob paid was a lifetime of being afraid of his elder brother and remorse for having wronged Esau. Thanks, Mom.

Here's an idea. Maybe we let our kids clear their own road. When they succeed, we rejoice with them in their accomplishment. When they fail, they learn and find other paths. We'll build a stronger, more resilient society if we just turn off the snowplows.