But when she warbled the immortal "Greatest Love of All", I think she might have had a point.

Pay heed to Whitney, parents of 2008!

She believes the children are our future – teach them well, and let them lead the way.

Though admittedly, not across roads under the age of six.

It's a sentiment I feel we need to remember this week, in the wake of the realisation that kids of today really might be as useless and vegetative as the Disney Channel have been assuming they are all these years.

Long gone are the days I remember (I use the term "remember" loosely, encompassing "nicked it off a Hovis advert/episode of Little House of the Prairie"), where parents would happily wave their brood off in the mornings, watching them cycle into the horizon with nothing but a knapsack full of imagination slung over their shoulder.

Now, apparently, they're not so much leading the way as being suffocated under a hypoallergenic blanket of parental panic – like that Piriton advert where everyone's wearing bubble wrap, but without the secret implication that this might be a catwalk revolution waiting to happen.

Most worrying though (and by that I mean most likely to affect me) is that it's not just the littl'uns they're fussing over now.

The rise of the Helicopter Parent means that the umbilical cord now stretches as far as university and even graduate jobs – UCAS have now introduced a tick box on uni application forms to give parents permission to act as "agents" on behalf of their offspring, applying all that adult, form-filling experience to fighting for your place in higher education.

So far, so ridiculous.

But the terrifying bit, the bit that made me do a comedy shudder and feel smug about being able to wash my own hair without mummy to comb out the tangles, is that ONE IN TEN would-be students are actually ticking it.

Who are these people?

Do I know any of them?

Presumably not, as they're all at home wearing mittens, watching educational television and being fed carrot puree with a Beatrix Potter spoon.

Or being flogged through eight hours of Britain's Got Talent audition rehearsals a day.

Though come to think of it, remember the fresher tragedy cases?

Every year has them – the ones that have half a snakebite on the first night, end up tied to a lecture hall projector wearing floral boxers with Papa Smurf tattooed across their neck, have a nervous breakdown and drop out to go back to Swindon to work in their local Laser Quest.

I'll wager 12 free Freshers' Fair biros that those are the people who ticked that box.

I wouldn't believe the hype, but I witnessed helicopter parenting firsthand a few weeks ago when, in the midst of our desperate flatmate hunt, we genuinely received an email from someone's mother.

"My son is looking for a room!," she wrote, in the same tone one imagines she'd announce that he'd lost his Power Rangers lunchbox, and could she drop off some more Dairylea in case he shows signs of calcium deficiency in afternoon maths?

"He's fun, sociable and easy to live with," she assured us, obviously without any of the bias that carrying someone around for nine months before birth might incur.

And then, the worst bit – "He's about to start his postgraduate course in law."

Oh yes?

And will you be covering for him on the stand when he's too engrossed in Guitar Hero Three to go to court, Mrs Merton?

But maybe I'm wrong to judge.

I could be missing a trick here.

If I thought I could trust my mother not to answer essay questions entirely with reference to plotlines from The Archers, I might just send her into exams for me.

And nothing would be more satisfying than a phone call that went, "Lauren's boss? Mr Bravo here.

"I'm afraid she won't be coming in today, she has pins and needles in her left big toe and, because she's been watching too much House this week, fears it might be early muscle death."

The big flaw with sitting back and letting the parents helicopter, of course, is the assumption that they're any better at life than you are.

My mum might have 30 years on me, but she's also scared of her mobile phone and occasionally leaves the house wearing mismatching footwear.

Pitbull in lipstick she isn't, and I've forever thankful for it.

Mum, as Whitney would warble, I will always love you. But you're never going to an interview on my behalf.

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