Teen Mom (from 9-5): Gap Year Edition

Misha* and I liked to go out in matching attire.

In the winter of 2012 I packed up, got on a fifteen-hour flight and landed in America. I lived in the sprawling suburbia of the

Silicon Valley, a place so safe I ordered an iPhone (yes, I unashamedly fell pray to the mammoth American capitalist mentality) and it sat outside the doorstep for an entire weekend untouched. I learnt to order medium instead of large, and in turn, every American I met showcased their affinity for (American) geography by saying, when they learnt my name was Georgia: “Ohhh,

like the state right?” I was also the au pair of an eighteen-month-old toddler named *Misha.

Au pairing in the US or Europe is a remarkably popular choice for gap-yearers. You only have to open up any au pair website to be blasted with patriarchal-infused appeal: Get Paid to Play! Experience the American Dream!

And while that is all, of course, a little too picturesque to be wholly true, it is a cool venture, providing your gig ticks all the ‘as long as…’ boxes.

“But Mom, Brendan’s mom let him go to Lake Tanganyika and deep-river fish right after Plett Rage!”

You’re fourteen, and your best friend proudly hoists her t-shirt up to reveal a sparkling – and probably swollen red – belly button. Her mom let her get a belly piercing, whereas yours just let you get your ears pierced. Maybe.

You’re seventeen, show up at a friend’s place and he casually pops open a beer can for his dad, and then… for himself. You swallow your own gasp and mentally picture the fiery rage your dad would fly into if he saw you as so much sniff alcohol.

And then you’re eighteen. And surely, surely, this is it. This is the end of the overly pedantic parenting, right? Hold up.

Because if any of the above rang at all familiar to you, or even if it didn’t, there’s a possibility of something far more ominous coming your way: The anti-gap year parent.

Finishing High school: the storm before the gap

Cramming, internet-savvy flashcards and adorably ironic pencil cases.

You know how every (bordering-on-condescending) adult always tells you how high school years are some of the best of your life; ones in which you have no real concerns (apart from having to navigate yourself in a sea of pressure and test dates whilst trying to find yourself and get an education), to which you think: this is as good as it gets? Not a chance.