I felt I'd failed as a parent thanks to the gloating mums of high-achieving children - while mine aren't following a conventional path, says ROSIE GREEN. Then I had a striking realisation...
Graduations, exam results, sports days… it's been a summer of competitive parenting and it's given me a bad case of inadequate-itis.
My condition is triggered by WhatsApp messages like this from an old college 'friend', Becca*. 'So George has been predicted four A*s! We've pivoted to Oxbridge but are considering Ivy League options, too. He has a summer trip planned to build a school for underprivileged kids in Kenya (Just Giving link to follow) but, poor lamb, it's tricky factoring in his internship at Slaughter And May. What are your kiddiwinks up to?'
Another message lands – this time from a different friend in our breakaway WhatsApp group. 'Well, Becca, Jake is on course for (low) passes in his Btecs and considering a full-sleeve tattoo to complement the "nah mate" inking on his left buttock. His summer plans involve sitting in his pants shouting at his PlayStation Five. We're hoping he's not responsible for any teenage pregnancies.'
This is the week A-level results are announced, and it can make otherwise sane parents forget the virtues of modesty and empathy, and charge headlong into show-off mode.
The intensity of emotion only increases in private schools, where parents have invested 100-grand-plus in their darling's education and want the A*s to show for it.
The year my son's results came in I watched aghast as one of his classmate's fathers paced the car park shouting, 'The Farrells don't do Bs', his face the same shade of salmon as his chinos. His son, the one in possession of said 'abominable' grade, looked crestfallen while his mother became engrossed in her phone (we can only hope she was Googling divorce lawyers). The rest of us, who'd have, quite frankly, been overjoyed with a B, wished bad things for Mr Farrell's future.
My son's peak musical moment was age six, playing London's Burning on the recorder, writes Rosie Green
As a mother of two late teens I'm firmly in my comparative-parenting era, bombarded with Instagram posts about high-achieving kids from proud mummies and daddies. Nights out are dominated by chat about university acceptance offers and personal statements. Some people have children who excel, or seem to, at everything, juggling captaincy of multiple A-teams with weekly charity commitments. They have time to practise for Grade 8 flute (and then learn the piano for fun!) on top of studying for their four A-levels ('Milly just couldn't bear to drop history').
Lots of those kids are unbelievably charming to boot. (Good for them.) And some of those parents are proud of their wunderkind without feeling the need to force their achievements down your throat. Then there are the ones – often otherwise decent human beings – who show no emotional intelligence towards those whose kids are on a less, er, high-achieving path.
Back to Becca, who the rest of us call 'Elevenerife' (because if you've been to Tenerife she's been to…). She commits the ultimate exam-results day faux pas every year by asking exactly what grades everyone's kids got. (FYI it is socially unacceptable to ask for specifics, because parents can't then respond with a vague 'Yes, we're really pleased' and keep their egos intact.)
Why do I care so much about the gloaters? Because there is something in me and my Gen-X mindset that feels I've failed at parenting if my kids aren't trudging along the well-worn pathway towards a Russell Group degree, ticking all the middle-class markers of success on their way to a high-prestige job, which will give them security and – please god – financial independence.
Don't get me wrong – my kids are talented in many ways, a joy to be with, funny, bright, engaging, responsible and super-special, but they are resolutely not going to entertain a conventional career path. My daughter's grades are currently such that she could conceivably go to the finest universities in the land, but does she want to even consider attending the 'Oxbridge club'? No, she bloody doesn't. Did they do their Duke of Edinburgh awards? Absolutely not.
They confessed that they filed their forms in the recycling bin (see – they are good kids!) when I enquired why all their friends were off climbing Welsh mountains that weekend while they were at home watching Too Hot To Handle. Did they get Grade 8 cello? Again, negative. My son's peak musical moment was playing London's Burning on the recorder aged six (I only knew it was said song from the programme; there was no way you could tell from his arrangement of notes). Latin? Both hated it, obviously, and resisted any improving trips to cultural landmarks in favour of Netflix.
My daughter went to a school known for lacrosse. I bought the gear. I imagined Olympic glory. The only thing that stick has been used for is dislodging moths caught in our kitchen lantern.
For context, my alma mater was a grotty comprehensive in Birmingham that yo-yo'd in and out of special measures with the same regularity as Katie Price gets plastic surgery. My mother, like 99 per cent of 1980s parents, sent me to the local school. She didn't try to play the system by moving catchment areas or paying or praying.
In the way the pendulum seemingly swings for each generation, I strove to give my children 'all the opportunities' by sending them to a fancy school for a portion of their education. But, funnily enough, your kids want different things to you. Success doesn't look the same to Gen Z as it does (and did) to Gen X. And so I've come to realise that they need to explore the world and find out what they want to do. Forcing them to bend to my (old-fashioned, I now understand) notion of winning is not only impossible – it is likely to backfire. Nope, I should accept that this is their 'decade of possibility' and be proud of them for not succumbing to parental pressure.
When I reflect, I realise I didn't do what my Left-wing parents thought was laudable. In fact, the only time my dad seemed proud of me was in my early fashion magazine career when I told him I was writing something about cashmere. (He thought I was reporting on the Kashmir insurgency.)
In happier news, I can report that my inadequate-itis is now easing. Writing this piece has helped me gain perspective. I think my children are great, and I couldn't be prouder of them. I have faith it will all work out in the end. What's more, who knows what jobs will even be left after AI has done with us?
Elevenerife – I'm muting you.
