Ever heard of the term helicopter mom? It’s used to describe a parent who hovers—always just above the action, swooping in the moment something goes wrong. I never imagined I’d become one, but now… I get it.

It started back in Grade R. My son came home like any other day, but that evening, his teacher messaged me—thankfully—before he could say a word. A boy had spat in his face. Yes, spat. I saw red. I don’t even remember typing the reply, only how fast I sent it. I wanted that child moved, separated from mine, as far away as possible.

I wasn’t going to stay silent while someone treated my son like that. To the teacher’s credit, she handled it immediately. But something changed in me that day. I realized how vulnerable our kids really are when we’re not around—and how quickly I’ll go into full defense mode when they are mistreated.

Then came Grade 1.  A new year, a new problem. My son’s snacks started disappearing—the “nice things,” like chips and treats I packed as a little extra. I assumed maybe he was sharing. Nope. Turned out an older boy—two grades above—was targeting younger kids, “taxing” their snacks like he owned the lunch benches.

Thankfully, my son remembered his face. He told me, and more impressively, he told his teacher too. I sent her a message, of course—standard helicopter protocol—but this time, my little guy took the lead. He even helped point the boy out. The teacher again acted swiftly. Turns out it wasn’t an isolated incident, and the boy was called in for disciplinary action.

Mom: 1. Bullies: 0. Still, I felt emotionally drained.

Then came incident number three, again an older child, trying his luck with the younger kids- also taking their snacks- It wasn’t my boy alone anymore but his friends also became targets.

That was it. I ditched the message and made the call. I wasn’t going to let this become a pattern. The school has clear rules: older learners should be nowhere near the younger ones during interval. So why was this happening?

I told them this wasn’t a teacher problem, she made sure to address the first incident—it was a school problem. My child wasn’t going to become a silent casualty of lax supervision. They took action again. I was relieved. But I also started asking myself… was I hovering too much? Or just enough?

And now, the fourth incident—if you can even call it that.

My boy came home and said another learner had started calling him the name “kleintjie” with a big head. It’s just words, right? But words have weight. He’s small for his age, always has been. I looked at him and asked, “Am I tall?”

He smiled, “No, Mommy.”

“Exactly. Some people are tall. Some are small. But you’ve got a big brain, and a clever heart. Everyone’s made differently, and sometimes those bullies don’t have anything good to say, so they decide to be nasty.

I also told him to tell the boy to stop being a bully, otherwise he will inform the teacher and principal.

“You tell him you know you are small and your big head is because you have a big brain (which is also the truth).”

He giggled and moved on. But I didn’t. Because deep down, I remembered when someone made me feel “less than” too. I was in school, and a “cool” girl told me my hair looked like it needed to be relaxed. It didn’t. But I cried anyway—because I just wanted to fit in.

My only “comeback” was the “sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me” line.

Now here I am, watching my six-year-old navigate the same kind of comments. But unlike me, he didn’t just hear the insult—he saw the boy behind it.

“He looks sad, Mommy,” he told me. “He’s always alone.”

We’d seen that same boy walking home once. No adults. No friends. Just him. Suddenly, I wasn’t angry. I was curious. What’s his story? Does he get the love and attention he needs?

So here I am again, wondering: do I helicopter?

Maybe not this time. Maybe this is one of those moments where the lesson isn’t to shield—but to shape. To guide. To let my son feel the power of empathy, and the safety of being heard.

Because maybe the real victory isn’t in fighting for him…

It’s in watching him learn to stand tall—even if he’s still small.

tracy-lynn.ruiters@inl.co.za

Weekend Argus 

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