SCOTT
Yes. Two years ago, in William Wallace College. SO bad my DD got infected sores. University didn’t help.
Really??
Was in the news.
Fake news!
OMG
Exactly. Take everything with a pinch of salt.
Heather takes a deep breath, ignoring the smell of the rotting vegetables coming from the unemptied compost bin in the kitchen. This group was going to need some direction to stay on track.
Where do I get a mattress topper?
The Home Barn Warehouse, but none left in my town.
A new person joins the chat, tagging Heather into their response.
Seriously, what kind of helicopter parenting is this? Ridiculous!
Heather jolts backwards as though electrocuted.
Who on earth ….? It takes a moment to process the sheer rudeness before she leans forward once more, intent on deciphering who this outlier to the group is.
She clicks on the profile and uses a reverse pincer motion on her touch screen to magnify the image.
Scott Reynolds, actuary, father to Brianna stares back at her.
He’s dressed in ski wear and standing on what looks like a snowy mountainside.
Frost-laden trees pierce a clear blue, cloudless sky.
Scott’s face is bronzed and weather-beaten, undoubtedly from numerous high-end ski resort vacations.
Orange reflective goggles protect Heather from what she feels certain would be a forensic, calculating stare.
His forehead might be bronzed, and he might have one of those dips in his chin that she absolutely loves on a man, but honestly, what a knob!
Think it’s a perfectly valid question given the context of what’s come before.
She types. She adds “LOL” to soften the challenge somewhat. Then thinks, no screw it, I’m done with these passive, aggressive men that we all work so hard to accommodate. So instead, she backspaces three times before spontaneously, recklessly, uncharacteristically, adding:
What’s your problem?
and hitting send.
Heat rushes to her face. Man, oh man! She might be off men right now, but what did she just do? What is she always saying to Georgia?
Never post in anger.
Delete.
How do you delete?
She pulls her varifocals from her face and drags the keyboard closer. There. Found it. Delete post.
But grey circles are already appearing.
My problem? What’s yours?? Check the data: over-parented kids stand the lowest chance of success in life.
Just to be helpful, he adds a link from a Swedish Parenting Website circa 2009.
The absolute nerve of the man! Heather’s fingers spring to life but, again, too late.
Statistically your DD (!!) stands an 85% chance of not making it to the end of her freshman year and you have a 79% chance of being prescribed antidepressants in the next 9 months after spending half your life focusing entirely on your kid!!
Heather’s pulse hammers in her neck. Her vision goes swirly. 85% chance of this, 79% chance of that? How absolutely DARE he?
And she hadn’t even used that acronym!
A new chat opens.
(Admin)
Please, can I remind everyone of the group rules? We have agreed to always be courteous. This is an informal group of parents who are not affiliated with the university. I took down the previous chat, and any repetition will result in my removing individuals from the group. Thank you.
Removed from the group?
When she’s only just joined?
Heather hasn’t been forcibly excluded from something since 2012 when Sabrina Mackay’s mother withdrew Georgia’s party invite based on “difficulty catering for Georgia’s dietary needs”. She watches, powerlessly, as Scott Reynold’s smug, bronzed face disappears from her feed.
‘Georgia,’ she shouts up the stairs.
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s nearly mid-day. Come on. We need to buy you a mattress topper.’
SCOTT
Scott slams the laptop shut, springs to his feet, and drops into the plank position. Press ups are the answer to most problems.
One, two, three.
He throws his weight onto his biceps. Those bloody helicopter parents who devote their whole lives to their kids.
Seven, eight, nine.
A slight burn develops. Good.
Those people don’t realise what a bloody privilege it is to dedicate their entire beings to another person.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen …. heart rate one hundred and ten, great, he’s in the zone.
The worst are the ones who just assume that since life has been peachy until now, they can take it all for granted.
Twenty-one, two, three … he fights the urge to stop and allow himself some recovery time. Recovery is for wimps.
Twenty-eight, nine, thirty … enough.
We can't just assume those important to us will always be there. Sometimes shit happens. And the only thing we can do is assess the risk, mitigate against it, check our kids are resilient and, above all else, make sure nobody gets too close in the meantime.
Scott squat thrusts to standing. A trickle of sweat meanders between his pecs. It isn’t going to be enough today. A run – maybe a half marathon – will keep the demons at bay. He jogs down the stairs.
In the kitchen, Brianna’s cooking what looks like pancakes; her blonde, curly hair is pulled into a gorgeous, loose ponytail.
So like her mum.
The thought compresses his chest, and the familiar stab of longing just about fells him. He approaches his daughter, pecks her on the cheek.
‘I’m off for a run, honey,’ he says, ‘what are you doing today?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not sure. Think I’ll work through a packing list for university,’ his capable, assured daughter says.
‘Cool. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be an hour, two at the max. I have a key, though. No need to stay in.’
‘Sure thing. Love you, Dad.’
‘You too, honey.’
He grabs a key, opens the door, does a few quick stretches and finds his rhythm: one, two, three.
Bloody mattress toppers.