The Asian tiger mom that Amy Chua portrays in her new book may seem like just one more species in

the genus Extreme Parent — the counterpart to the hovering American Parens helicopterus or the

Scandinavian Curling Parents, who frantically rush ahead of their children, sweeping their paths clear of

the tiniest obstacles.

The common characteristics include an obsession with a child's success, a reflex to treat kids as

extensions or reflections of oneself and patterns of conduct that impartial observers might class as

insane if not criminal, if not both. In Chua's case, this famously includes prohibiting grades lower than an

A, TV, playdates and sleepovers, and warning her pianist child that "if the next time's not PERFECT, I'm

going to TAKE ALL YOUR STUFFED ANIMALS AND BURN THEM." In the case of the classic Western

helicopter parent, it starts with Baby Einstein and reward charts for toilet training, and it never really ends,

which is why colleges have to devote so many resources to teaching parents how to leave their kids

alone.

But it is the differences between the Tigers and the Choppers that help explain the furor Chua has

caused, at least in the U.S. Tigers fixate on success, defined as achievement in precision-oriented fields

like music and math; Choppers are obsessed with failure and preventing it at all costs. Tigers operate in a

culture of discipline; Choppers, in a culture of fear. Tigers view children as tough, able to take the abuse;

Choppers view them as precious, to be raised under glass. Their fury at a bad grade is more likely to land

on the teacher than on the child.

And if Chua appears to sentence her children to slave labor, Western parents enshrine their children and

crave their friendship. "The thing that impresses me most about America," observed Edward, Duke of

Windsor, who knew something about indulgence, "is the way parents obey their children." There is

something bracing about Chua's apparent indifference to her daughters' hostility, especially for parents

who have learned that even if you let your teenagers spend 50 hours a week on Facebook, they'll still find

reasons to hate you. (My favorite title of a parenting book: Get Out of My Life, but First Could You Drive

Me and Cheryl to the Mall?) The reactions to Chua's book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, have ranged from praise for her honesty

to scorn for her "extreme, rigid and authoritarian approach," as one critic put it. But in less hysterical

precincts, she elicits a more conflicted response. First reaction: My God, she's crazy. Second reaction:

Maybe she's right. I suspect one reason the book has touched such a nerve is a suspicion among the

Choppers that an excessive fear of failure guarantees it — that if you don't let your kids get clobbered

now and then by a tough teacher, they'll never have the resilience to thrive as adults in a competitive

economy.

Twenty-first century parenting already seemed like a gladiatorial contest, its battles fought in playgrounds,

at book clubs and especially online, with the rise of parenting websites where parents — O.K., mainly

moms — claw and bite. You let your toddler have Froot Loops? You quit karate lessons? Western

parents may exalt freedom and self-expression, but in many ZIP codes, parenting is a highly conformist

activity, with protocols every bit as strict as Chua's. Commenters spank the moms who appear

insufficiently committed to breast feeding ("You literally make me shudder," reads one response on

UrbanBaby.com).

Some of Chua's critics sound just as smug when they declare that the Tigers' "inside-the-box thinking is

why Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Michael Dell and/or a cure for cancer will never come from China." Too much

discipline, they argue, makes for submissiveness and lack of imagination, because imagination by its

nature is subversive; it colors outside the lines. Likewise, invention, the creation of something utterly new,

violates the authority of the present and the tyranny of tradition.

But this much derision, I suspect, reflects some doubts. Western families have no monopoly on

happiness, and those of the helicopter variety at least do not exactly encourage wild individuality in their

children. Trust your instincts, Dr. Spock advised back in 1946; but that involves a leap of faith that many

modern parents find terrifying. Helicopter parents are great believers in expertise: read enough books,

consult enough professionals, and you can crack the parenting code. Chua's daughters are, by all

accounts, girls any parent would be proud of. But maybe the real appeal is her tone of certainty in

discussing something so confounding as child rearing — as if it's a puzzle to be solved rather than a

picture to be painted, and there's no way to know what it will look like until it's done.