For helicopter moms

As a veteran of the War on Ignorance and Apathy, having been stationed for 21 years at Fort LRSD, and now being treated for PTSD, I’ve reached a deeper appreciation for the opening credits on M*A*S*H, that iconic series that both entertained and enlightened us to the horrors of war and necessary coping strategies behind the front lines and headlines.

If you’re a fellow baby boomer, you surely know well how the team of noncombatants duck low as they rush to assess the needs of their patients then rush them away from the vehicle and pilot that delivered them.

Stand proud and tall, and the hardworking, highly skilled, compassionate nurses and surgeons could be left headless and their patients left in the hands of others less qualified.

Not unlike tiger moms, helicopter moms can smell fear. Borrowing from another iconic war film, I can just see them fueling up in the mornings, then swarming across the map in their SUVs before hours, catching the unsuspecting faculty off guard or “lighting them up” after dark, cornering their targets after open houses with tracer grade reports and no-holdsbarred bombs dropped right in our laps at the end of a 14-hour day.

One assault SUV pilot can be seen sniffing her chai latte in one leather-gloved hand, her phone and (maybe) the steering wheel in the other, and can be heard telling someone, “I love the smell of my gray palm in the morning …” (You know how that one plays out.)

So, with both Mother’s Day and “graduation” (a term I use lightly) in the air, I extend my right hand in a fisted salute to all you helicopter moms out there.

BTW, “cavalry dads,” you’re not off the hook. In the words of Little Rock’s own Douglas MacArthur, “I shall return!” LEE A. LYLE North Little Rock