Standing Room | 20 June 2009

I have the fear. The fear wakes me up at 3 a.m. and for a split second I forget what it is exactly that I’m frightened of. And then I remember. I am a mother and one of my children is off travelling and is on the other side of the world.

In the still of the night I prioritise The List. I practise the breathing techniques Betty Parsons taught me when I was first pregnant 24 years ago. The ineffectual huffs and puffs that were supposed to transcend pain. The List catalogues ‘worst case scenarios’ and I systematically shuffle my top five in order of anxiety. I have become the peri-menopausal, female Charles Highway of irrational angst. While The Rachel Papers were concerned with getting the girl, my list deals with how to let her go.

I try to rationalise the fear. My parents had to do all their worrying without the gadgets of teenage surveillance. No mobile phones, no emails, no Facebook — therefore I am lucky. My generation has been spoilt. We’ve enjoyed the luxury of parenting teenagers tethered to an umbilical cord of techno-communication. We send our children out on a safety rein that is supposed to give them freedom and us peace of mind. Why then can I not sleep?

Moving up three places on The List to number one is the fact Tilly has now moved to the beach. The Beach. Ok — so she’s on a beach in Bali, not Thailand, and I realise the Leonardo DiCaprio film was fictional and gave backpacking a bad name, but surely even good beach life can turn ugly — it’s far too close to the sea.

Still holding position at number two is accommodation on the beach. £4.50 a night. Does that price include a lavatory? A door? A door with a lock? A fan? A rat? This is a child who gets into bed with me to watch Friends and wraps herself up in a White Company cashmere throw.

Number three: Dioralyte. Did I give her enough Dioralyte? Why didn’t I give her more Dioralyte? Did she take the wretched Dioralyte? Does Dioralyte really work?

New entry at number four: ‘May go to Gilli Islands — not sure if my mob will work x.’ I can’t revisit that text, the thought of being totally incommunicado is giving me palpitations.

Number five: A smorgasbord of shard-like worries that my only hope of keeping under control is by applying the logic of statistical probability. Terrorist attacks, spiked drinks, dengue fever, swine flu, weird people, weirder people, truly evil weird people.

Every morning I wake up, log onto Facebook and see if I have a message. A message a day keeps the fear at bay.

‘Don’t freak out Mamma!!!! Guess what? Today I went surfing and it was unreal. And guess what? I got up first time and the waves were medium-big.’

I write a reply. ‘Cool. Of course I’m not freaking out, I just want you to have the most amazing time ever.’

On tonight’s List we have a new entry that has zoomed straight in at number one: Waves. Tidal waves. Tsunamis. Concussion. Sharks. Jellyfish.

I just want to go back to counting sheep. Come home.