When my 15-year-old son Oscar told me that he wanted to go travelling in Europe by rail, my first thought was: ‘Only if I’m coming with you.’
But that wasn’t because I didn’t trust him to act responsibly and stay safe. He was asking permission to set off on a three-week Interrail adventure, with a friend who is a few months older, to visit some incredible cities – Berlin, Amsterdam, Munich and Barcelona among them.
And I admit I felt a pang of envy, for I’ve never been lucky enough to visit some of those places.
I felt a twang of maternal regret too. Like all mums, I want nothing more than to watch my children grow up happy and independent. But it’s still a wrench to see them getting ready to embark on their own lives.
At no point, though, did I wonder whether he was old enough. I know my son. He’s mature and competent for his age, and more than capable of coping in the adult world. If I’d had any serious doubts about the wisdom of the trip, I wouldn’t have let him do it. Instead, I trusted him – and he repaid that trust, as I knew he would.
My husband Ben and I ensured he’d be as safe as possible, with all the necessary numbers on his phone, full travel insurance and one of my credit cards for emergency use only.
He and his friend planned the trip themselves – they found every hostel and made every connection without help.
Only once did they sense a hint of trouble, when in Amsterdam a man who was obviously a pickpocket started following them. The boys held on to their bags, kept the guy in their peripheral vision, and pretty soon he realised they were aware of him and left them alone.
While my son was away, I thought about him often and told myself not to fret. We didn’t speak every day, but more than once a week. Naturally, they had a brilliant time and Oscar even made it home for his 16th birthday last week.
A couple of days before that, I wrote on social media how proud I was of him. ‘If we’re afraid, our children will also be afraid,’ I tweeted. ‘If we let go, they will fly.’
At first, most people who responded shared my enthusiasm. They told me how formative their first holidays without their parents had been, and what incredible lifelong memories they’d made. Many of the messages were lovely and life-enhancing.
But as the story was picked up, the feedback became more critical and hysterical. People accused me of exposing my son to risk, of being reckless and uncaring.
I accepted an invitation to go on Radio 4’s Today programme and talk about how important it is, for the sake of our children’s mental health, to help them attain independence. I thought I had explained myself quite well.
More fool me. The following day, this text arrived: ‘Hi Kirstie, I’m a duty social worker for Kensington and Chelsea Children [sic] Services. I’m wanting [sic] to have a conversation with you regarding a referral we have received in relation to your son. Kind regards.’
A social worker. Children’s services. My son. That made absolutely no sense. But over the phone, as I listened with rising anger, a social worker for the borough council informed me that an anonymous member of the public had reported me for child neglect.
‘You must be able to see this is malicious,’ I said. ‘Please tell me that you are not intending to open a case file on my child.’
And that’s when the nightmare became worse still. The file was already open, she said, and if I wanted to have it formally closed I would have to contact the data protection office. It in turn would ‘review the situation’.
To say I was volcanic is an understatement. How could they inflict this Orwellian ordeal on a family that is stable, loving and safe? Have they nothing better to do?
When I put down the phone, I cried from the sheer shock of it. Then I called my husband, who thought the idea that Oscar might be ‘neglected’ was hilarious. His laughter helped me calm down.
But it isn’t funny. The repercussions of having a flag against our family’s name on the social services computer could be serious, for instance if Oscar should apply for a visa to visit the US.
I’m staggered that someone can do this to us, either out of a hopelessly misguided sense of what parenting should be or simple vindictiveness. And I’m heartbroken that my intrepid son’s first big foray into the wide world should trigger such awful consequences.
A generation ago, 16-year-olds were regarded as young adults, which is exactly what most of them are. It’s up to parents to decide who is or isn’t grown-up enough to start spreading their wings.
Back in the 1980s, a good friend, penniless but desperate to be in Ibiza with his mates after his O-levels, crossed the Channel as a foot passenger on a ferry and hitchhiked to Spain, aged 16. I wouldn’t let either of my sons do that – but my pal had the time of his life.
My brother spent months solo in France at 16, learning the language, before touring Europe for most of his late teens. He’s now fluent in several languages, a boon for his career in contemporary art.
I don’t believe girls should be treated any differently, either. I certainly wasn’t – at 17, my parents trusted me enough to leave me in charge of my much younger sisters for the day in New York. We went roller-skating in Central Park.
That’s nothing compared with what my parents and their generation did in their teens. My husband’s mother, who sadly passed away in June, went to university at 15. And his father joined the Merchant Navy during the Second World War at 16. He sailed with the Arctic Convoys, a level of bravery and hardship I don’t think any of us can fully imagine today.
Oscar’s generation have lived through an ordeal of a very different sort. He and his friends were just starting secondary school when lockdown struck. They were deprived of normal life by a terrifying pandemic that nobody yet understood. Only now are we discovering the true cost to the mental health of a generation.
Continuing to mollycoddle them and fill them with fears of real life beyond their bedrooms, is the worst thing we could possibly do.
On Friday, a TV producer invited me to join a discussion on whether 16-year-olds should be allowed to attend music festivals such as Glastonbury without supervision. The idea anyone should even ask that question is madness.
Yet, Sir Keir Starmer was committed to giving 16-year-olds the vote. How are we supposed to trust them to choose a government, if we don’t trust them to go to a pop concert? Every young person is different but one thing is certain – the danger is in underestimating them, not in setting them free.
A RBK&C spokesperson said: ‘Safeguarding children is an absolute priority. We take any referral we receive very seriously and we have a statutory responsibility for children under 18 years of age.’
Kirstie Allsopp has not been paid for this article or for any information relating to this story.