My Dearest Muffins:
Do you hear the sound of rotor blades whizzing across the neighborhood? It’s not the police stalking an escaped convict or Kim K. on her way to an emergency butt lift; oh, the pain of gravity, my dahlings. What you’re hearing is the sound of helicopter parents rushing to Target for back-to-school supplies.
Yes, it’s here already. Summer vacation is over, and it’s time for Mommy and Daddy’s precious progeny to go out into the big, scary world. Although the school is only two blocks away, GPS gadgets are already being placed in backpacks and lunchboxes. All clothes, whether from Walmart or Neiman Marcus, will be sporting enough high-tech tracking devices to qualify a first-grader as the Terminator.
Delightfully distraught parents are sucking down Aperol Spritzes and composing emergency contact lists of fellow choppers. If little Becky finds a seed in her orange slice and Mommy is in her yoga class, who’s in line of succession to come to the rescue? God forbid the little princess should swallow a foreign object. She could wind up in urgent care with Mommy wearing a blood pressure cuff.
There’ll be more drama surrounding the first day of school than a Dolly Parton drag queen with one deflated boob. SUVs the size of Bezos’s yacht will be pulling up to the school to offload paternal twins, Kelly and Clarkson, with enough color-coded supplies to make Staples stock rise.
The overinvolved mummies and daddies have spent the last two months micromanaging their hothouse flowers. They are trying to transition back to no hovering between the hours of 8 am and 3 pm. Deep breathing exercises and Zoom calls with their therapists are barely helping these Machiavellian breeders. Geppetto has less control over Pinocchio, and he was yanking his strings.
The parents’ separation anxiety, which the teachers will experience as they have to drag Timmy, Tara, and Tyrese into the school, will mirror that of the friend of a Madonna fan club member when they have to extract them from the stadium after a concert. Tearful goodbyes and the clutching of pearls all around.
You’d think these children were being deployed into combat, not just Mrs. Doubtfire’s math class. There are whispered conversations in overcrowded hallways… Oh, wait, I digress. They’re lyrics from Sunset Boulevard. Let me focus. You see, I’m not a parent. I have all the knowledge that makes me a gay icon, but not the will. Oh, dear god, never the will or the need. There will never be chocolate-covered fingers on my Eames chair or baby puke on my Armani coat.
As a farewell, the parental units murmur instructions about bullying, hand sanitizer, gluten-free snacks, and lactose intolerance. The best part is hiding in the bushes and watching them leave. It’s like a mass exodus of overly caffeinated gazelles leaping back to their luxury vehicles. They’re already drafting emails to the teacher about Tiffany’s IBS and Liam’s athletic prowess, which must place him in the starting lineup for cornhole.
A teacher’s salary doesn’t compensate for the parents who spend half the day sending off letters, signed by their lawyer, making demands of the school. Mrs. Catty Carbunkle wants the word “gay” stricken from the holiday classic “Deck the Halls.”
“Why should anyone have to wear clothes made for homosexuals?” she queries. I have a question for you, Catty. What exactly are clothes made for the gays? Do you mean the outfits on the Paris, Milan, and NYC runways created by top designers? The bespoke beauties that you can only dream of wearing? Do you realize the Jaclyn Smith pantsuit you bought at Goodwill is a Dior knockoff?
Meanwhile, she owns a Christmas sweater that has more sequins than a drag beauty pageant. Also, she attacks Winnie the Pooh because the bear only wears a shirt. Kids shouldn’t read books with half-naked characters, and his last name is offensive to young ears. Pooh? Is that a real surname or just his smell? Lady Catty! Please!!!
Board of Education meetings are like the Salem Witch Trials. These stifling parents make false accusations and hold grudges against independent thinkers and diversity. Just like the floor of Congress in D.C. What a world, what a world!
Not having your pilot's license is the best way to raise children. Free-range parenting is not a negative thing. You can keep a watchful eye without levitating over their heads. Let your children have independence and space to be themselves.
Allow Phoebe and Chaz to survive the journey from the classroom to the dismissal bell without requiring parental intervention. Don’t put braces on their brains and keep them sheltered and uneducated. They’ll grow up with only one career path to follow—politics.
Until next time, my beautiful butterflies, remember to slay and don’t hover, because I can see up your Talbot’s skirt. Oh, my eyes!
From the arbiter of all things tasteful and proper,
Gaylord Goforth
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