It’s true to say that I am probably a bit of a worrier. Ok, a downright panic merchant. So when Busy-And-Important-Husband called me during his lunch break yesterday to announce he had enrolled our nearly seven year old Boy-Who-Asks-Questions into a sailing school on Sydney Harbour, this self-confessed helicopter parent nearly flung a blade.

Black Hawk down! Black Hawk down!

The idea entered Busy-And-Important-Husband’s head last weekend when he spied a sailing school at our local harbour beach.

“That looks great. We should enroll the kids!” the always-eager Irishman exclaimed.

“Maybe,” was my half-hearted response, which in my mind really translated to: over-my-dead-body. As I watched the kids in their little sailing boats head out to the choppier waters of the harbour, I hoped he would forget.

But of course he didn’t. My only saving grace is that Little Fairy is too young – she has to wait two years until she can join the school. But not Boy-Who-Asks-Questions; he is eligible and he is keen.

So today I did what any helicopter parent would do. I rang the school and drilled them.

Me: “Hello, my husband has just enrolled my son into your sailing school and I’m just calling to find out a few things.”
Sailing school lady: “Ah, yes. He said you might call.”
Me: “Could you tell me how far out the kids go?”
Sailing school lady: “Oh, they go out into the bay.”
Me: “What do you mean by ‘the bay’?
Sailing school lady: “The harbour. They go out into the harbour.”
Me: “Where it’s deep?”
Sailing school lady: “Yes, it’s pretty deep out there!”
Me: <squeaks like a mouse then clears throat> But they don’t go out as far as the Heads, right? You know, where the harbour meets the sea?
Sailing school lady: “Well, if the weather is good they might.”
Me: <hyperventilates>
Sailing school lady: “The kids really love it you know.”
Me: <hyperventilates>
Sailing school lady: “The instructors are excellent.”
Me: <hyperventilates>
Sailing school lady: “You really have nothing to worry about.”
Me: <hyperventilates>
Sailing school lady: “Look, why don’t you just come down on the weekend and give it a try and see how you…I mean…HE feels about it.”
Me: “Okay…”

The thought of watching my little tiny son hoist sail and leave shore in one of those little tiny boats fills me with fear from head to toe.

But my life has always been tainted by fear and anxiety. Fear of flying. Fear of horse riding. Fear of any kind of dog that has the word ‘bull’ in its breed. Fear of the rowdy drunken people walking down my street at night because they might break into my house and king hit me. I am the classic nervous nelly, worry wart, what-if-the-sky-falls-in kind of person.

I don’t know why I am the way I am and I can honestly say I don’t enjoy it one bit. It wastes so much energy, especially when the things I catastrophise about never eventuate. Never.

And I’ve always promised myself not to project my anxiety onto my kids. So…back to the sailing school.

If it were up to me alone, I’d put this off for a couple of years and pray he develops a passion for something a little less riskier, like say…horticulture. But it’s not just up to me. He also has a say. He shows so much interest in boats every time we go near the harbour and I know it would be unfair to hold him back. Especially when there are so many other kids his age doing it.

Allowing your kids to step out from the safety of your shadow is hard. But in my heart I know that it will probably do him more harm in the long run if I hold him back every time something slightly risky crosses our path.

So next Sunday morning, think of me as the instructor pries me off my son I let go of my son’s little hand and watch him drift away. And despite how much I may worry, fret and hyperventilate, I have to trust that it’s the right thing to do.