It started innocently enough—just a little hovering in the backyard. My son Timmy said he was just “experimenting,” but I knew better. They always say it’s just for fun at first. One little quadcopter, a harmless $50 toy from the discount aisle. But soon, I noticed the signs. The late-night Amazon boxes. The tiny propellers littering his room like discarded needles. The hours spent in forums with names like RotorHeads Anonymous and Prop Addicts Unite.
He was chasing a high… literally.
I confronted him one evening. “Timmy,” I said, clutching a broken propeller like a crime scene exhibit, “What is this?”
He didn’t even try to deny it. “It’s a drone, Mom,” he said, his eyes darting left and right like he was scanning for GPS satellites. “I’m just flying it for fun.”
Fun. Isn’t that what they all say? But soon, one drone wasn’t enough. He wanted something faster, with a better camera. He told me it was just for “FPV”—First Person View, like it was some sort of video game. But then the racing started. The money started flying faster than the drones.
At first, I tried to support his little hobby. I even got him a drone-themed cake for his birthday. But that just gave him fuel. Literally—he switched to gas-powered drones next. Then came the fancy goggles. The controllers with more switches than a NASA launchpad. I’m pretty sure he spent more on a carbon-fiber frame than I did on our family sedan.
Timmy started hanging out with “those kids” at the park. You know the type—wearing aviator shades, talking about “thrust-to-weight ratios,” and saying things like, “I can’t stop, Mom. I just need more flight time!”
I begged him to stop. “Timmy, you’re spiraling out of control!” I cried.
“That’s called a barrel roll, Mom,” he said with a smirk.
He thought it was a joke.
The neighbors started noticing, too. One called me last week and said, “Marge, I think your son’s been dealing… drones.” Apparently, Timmy’s been recruiting others into this madness. I found a stack of drone kits in the garage. He said they were for “friends,” but I know he’s pushing parts on the streets.
The final straw was when I found out he had joined the Drone Racing League. I walked into his room, and there he was, sitting on the floor with his goggles on, whispering to his drone like it was his best friend. “C’mon, baby,” he said. “Let’s hit Mach 2 today.”
“Timmy,” I sobbed, “You’ve gone too far! You’re just chasing the dragonfly now!”
He didn’t even look up. “It’s not a dragonfly, Mom,” he said. “It’s a quadcopter with a brushless motor. Get it right.”
I don’t know what to do anymore. He’s talking about getting his pilot’s license now. He says he wants to take it to the “next altitude.” But I know what that means—more hours, more money, and more time spent with his head in the clouds.
He’s got no time for his family anymore. He missed Thanksgiving because he was tuning his ESCs (whatever those are). Last week, I caught him trying to strap a GoPro to the cat! He said it was for “science,” but I know it was for TikTok views.
I’m losing him, I really am. My sweet boy, gone to the drone zone. I blame myself. Maybe if I’d spent more time teaching him to love RC cars, or model trains, or literally anything that doesn’t come with a thousand-page manual, he wouldn’t have fallen into this trap.
If you’re listening to this and you have kids, please—talk to them about drones before it’s too late. Don’t let them get hooked on the prop life. It starts with just a little hovering, but before you know it, they’re flying high, doing flips for strangers, and pouring their entire paycheck into LiPo batteries.
Timmy, if you can hear me, just remember: your family loves you more than your stupid drones ever will. Please come back to Earth.
