I stumbled upon it in one of the darkest corners of the internet: a Facebook parenting group. The mother’s intentions were pure, I tried to tell myself. But I couldn’t help feeling exasperated – and even a bit saddened – by her post: ‘I’m desperately looking for a Rubik’s cube tutor for my son,’ read the message. ‘He’s four.’
It was June 2020. The world was in the horrendous early throes of Covid-19. Governments were struggling to contain the virus. Researchers were working around the clock to churn out a vaccine. Millions had already lost their jobs and their health. Millions more would lose their lives in due course. And all the while, on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, a mother desperately needed someone to teach her sprog how to solve a 1970s Hungarian combination puzzle.
My daughter was born in London where parenting is also competitive, but where British stoicism and an innate, mild-mannered aversion to direct conflict tamps down on any animal spirits that might drive a mother to slip cyanide into another’s cappuccino in the interest of being declared the world’s best parent.
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