EVERY COLLEGE TOWN ACROSS THE U.S. (The Daily Whatever Wire) — I have an email alert from Amazon, one of those damn delayed shipping ones. It says “white duct tape, $4.99.” I would like to set it next to the receipt from a company that will sell you a second mother for $10,000 a year, and I would like to explain why one of these is parenting and the other one is a hostage negotiation with your own anxiety.
I spent last week moving my daughter into her dorm. I flew out with her for they week—stop it, she asked me to stay the full week, how could I not stay?—and spent seven days assembling her life in a room the size of a walk-in closet. Her roommate had, God bless her, read every word of the move-in packet and ordered a matching hutch and storage bins measured to the millimeter. My kid had a school-issued desk and a dream. Cue the emergency Target run, and her roommate’s dad assembling my daughter’s hutch (what a mensch) because it showed up too big for the desk, telling us to fix it the way GenX dudes fix everything: “get some white duct tape, secure it, it’ll be great.” I ordered said tape with overnight shipping. Then I flew home, thinking my daughter’s new home was completely set up for success.
Today (her actual first day of class, two days after I left) the hutch fell off the desk at 7am and shattered, four hours before her first class. She didn’t cry or fall apart. She just texted a photo to our family group chat and said, “here’s how it’s going.”
And that kid of mine still made it to class.
I’m not a monster who wants her kid to suffer. I’m a mom who watched her kid recover from a shelf collapse using duct tape and snark. But now I need to tell you about an industry charging parents up to TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS A YEAR to ensure this kind of mishap never has to happen to anyone else’s kid.
Just on Sunday—also known as The Day Before the Desk Collapse—the New York Times profiled “concierge moms for college kids.” This is a very real service, offered by real women, with real invoices, who offer to play mommy for local college students. For example, Mindy Horwitz runs mindyKNOWS out of St. Louis—$49 a month, up to $1,600 for all four years, and her signature move is delivering a birthday cupcake in person. Adorable! A Northwestern franchisee named Heather Metz hands out a business card that says, and I am not inventing this part, “We are not Mom or Dad, but we’re the next best thing.” And up in Boston, a company called Concierge Services for Students gives your kid access to as many as five women, collectively referred to as their “second mom.” For $10,000 a year. They get five women, split like a faux maternal labor timeshare. The business started 30 years ago for international students with nobody stateside. Now three-quarters of its clients have living, reachable mothers one plane ticket away. The mission didn’t grow. The guilt did.
Ahem. Your college-aged child doesn’t need a stranger on a payroll to iron a fitted sheet. Your kid needs to find out at 2am that she can survive a bad night without you, on wrinkled bedding. and that discovery is the entire point of year one. What’s actually for sale with these services is your relief, not her readiness. You’re not buying your kid a softer landing. You’re buying yourself out of the unbearable, correct, biologically appropriate feeling of watching your kid need you a little less every single week for the rest of both your lives. That feeling is supposed to hurt. This is the deal we all signed up for with parenting, except now they’ve built a five-figure subscription tier around convincing you it’s a problem money can fix. But it can’t. Money can rent the appearance of a childhood with no hard nights in it. It can’t build the kid into a resilient adult who survived one.
A clinical psychologist quoted in coverage of this trend said, gently, that swooping in to solve every problem can set back a young adult’s development. YOU DON’T SAY.
Let me give you my less gentle version: If your able-bodied 18-year-old can’t survive a bad laundry day without paid intervention from a stranger, your kid is not ready to be away at college. Keep them home. Send them to a local school. Take a gap year. Whatever. Not being ready isn’t a failure; it’s just where that kid is. What’s a failure is buying the illusion of readiness—literally—instead of the real thing.
But wait, there’s more! A service in Alabama called Bama Mama—and oh lordy how I wish I were making that name up but I most definitely am not—will check on a student if the kid hasn’t texted mom back in a few days. Check on as in, show up. In person. The verbatim pitch, from Bama Mama’s own mouth, reads as follows: “just pop in and say hi, and take a picture and send it to their mom.” Can you fucking imagine, a grown-ass woman, a complete stranger, showing up at a 19-year-old’s dorm room to photograph her like a hostage proof-of-life, because Mom got antsy after 72 hours of ordinary radio silence??
I have one question: how does she get in? These are card-access dorm buildings with desks and check-in logs. Is Bama Mama on a guest list? Does she flash a business card or her mom boobs at the desk staff and get waved backstage like a groupie? Because either the university is rubber-stamping a stranger’s access to student housing without telling anyone, or she’s doing exactly what every campus safety training video warns freshmen about—walking in behind someone holding the door. Except with her, it’s sanctioned, invoiced, and framed as love, and not like stalking at all.
Parents. Oh, you sweet, well-intentioned parents. I know this is hard. But trust that they need to learn resilience far more than you need that selfie.
I don’t hate the women running these businesses. Horwitz seems lovely. Somebody’s got to make rent now that corporate America is done with GenX women my age. But I loathe the machine that convinced an entire generation of parents that discomfort is a malfunction instead of the literal curriculum. We raised ourselves with a house key on a shoelace and a landline nobody answered until dinner, and somehow the lesson we took from that childhood wasn’t “let my kid handle a broken shelf.” It was “pay someone so she never has to.”
And look, parents: I get it. I just left my firstborn child two plane flights and three time zones from home. My heart aches. I cried buckets. Fuck, I’m getting all teary now, writing this essay now.
This is the goddamn circle of life. We parents are supposed to tend our own broken hearts, and our kids are supposed to duct tape their own busted desks. I don’t make the rules, but I’m certain this is how we’re supposed to play by them.
But fine, you want to spend $10,000 on your kid’s first year away? Do it. Buy her a plane ticket home for Thanksgiving and spend the rest on therapy—for you, not her—because the kid is gonna be okay. She’s got $4.99 of duct tape and a dorm full of future best friends. You’ve got a $10,000 subscription to your own worst fear.
Fire Bama Mama. Cancel the cupcake delivery. Let your kid fix the shelf.
Hi, I’m Dana. And I Write Out Loud.
I Write Out Loud is my primary home for cultural memoir, personal essays, and live conversations about the strange, brave process of becoming yourself in midlife. If you like essays with a point of view and a pulse, you’ll find plenty to read there.
And if you enjoyed this story — why not buy me a coffee?☕
{Make mine a decaf iced oat milk mocha, please!}
Thanks for reading!
We’re Dana DuBois and Lawrence Winnerman, lifelong BFFs and co-hosts of The Daily Whatever Show — our independent home for smart, irreverent conversations about culture, politics, media, creativity, relationships, aging, and whatever else is shaping modern life this week.
We’re live every weekday at 10am ET with thoughtful analysis, sharp interviews, cultural commentary, humor, and the kind of conversations that don’t pretend everything is fine when it clearly isn’t.
If you’re enjoying what we’re building, please consider supporting our work with a paid subscription. Your support helps us keep the show independent, book fascinating guests, and continue creating smart conversations with your morning coffee.
We love you — mean it!
My concierge service was to warn my freshman daughter to stay away from weird ladies and their cakes. They will survive. Us…still crying!
When Dad visited me we went for sushi. Not DIY. I think I saw 3 parents in 4 years (outside of graduation). What has happened?!