A helicopter mother, I am definitely not. Also, I'm not a tiger or a mythical beast either. I don't rehearse connection child rearing, and I trust unfenced is preferred for chickens over youngsters. So what sort of mother am I? I am a survivalist. To me, the definition is straightforward. While more often than not I attempt to bring my children up in a sustaining, instructively rich, nutritiously stable condition, now and again, the s*@# just hits the fan (or, more probable, my most costly floor covering). Furthermore, when hissy fits, fevers, or general fastidiousness is the request of the day, what happens next is anyone's guess . . . what's more, the toons gone ahead. What's more, I am absolutely, 100 percent OK with that. So how would you turn into a survivalist mother? Here's my helpful manual for my "whatever gets you as the day progressed" theory. Encourage them sound sustenances, at any rate half of the time. The days ...
