Meet the super-stalker parents tracking their kids on campus

By the time your child reaches 18 it’s possible you’ll have belonged to dozens of class WhatsApp groups, compulsively collecting and circulating information — from the precise number of snacks required for the school trip to unsolicited advice from more organised mums (for they are always mums) on the packing of hats and sunscreen as well as crucial reminders of inset and nonuniform days. If you can hack a tendency towards passive aggression (“I’m pretty sure I posted this on 10/04, Caroline”) and allow the alphas to take charge, they’re an invaluable resource for the sloppier parent.
But where to draw a line? I thought my mums’ WhatsApp group days were finally over. I was wrong. Helicoptering or micromanaging every aspect of our children’s lives is not an easy habit to drop. As our chicks are tipped from the nest, there’s a growing compulsion to organise their new life at university and then, dare I say, digitally spy on it.
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From family-tracking apps to the simple Find My iPhone, it’s easy to habitually stalk your teenager while you scroll your Instagram feed. A friend whose daughter studied in the US used Life360, which tells them their children’s location, phone usage, battery life and even driving speed. Another admits to secretly monitoring the AirTag that her 19-year-old used while travelling and which is still attached to his bag. You do have to wonder what is to be gained from the ability to see that your child is in the pub and not their scheduled lecture on a Tuesday afternoon.
There are the timeless rites of passage that must be observed, of course. The trip to Ikea together to buy pans and plates that will instantly merge with everyone else’s on campus. The Lidl shop — lots of broccoli you both know will moulder on the fridge shelf — and the awkward goodbyes when you strongly suspect they really, really want you to go so they can chat to their new housemates. Apart from checking in occasionally, that should be it. They’re fine. And you will be fine once you’ve sat on their childhood bed and had a good sob.
A few weeks after son number three started university last year, my phone pinged with an invitation to join a new WhatsApp group. It was the mum of one of his six housemates. “I thought it would be a great idea if we all hooked up to keep an eye on them,” the first message trilled hopefully (smiley-face emoji). My son begged me not to join, and I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t resist. It started with a discussion on whose child would be responsible for paying the landlord the exorbitant rent (we were all guarantors) and quickly deteriorated. Sample posts: “Could someone else pls take on the bills cos Millie is v stressed (crying emoji).” “So if the others could get on board that wd be great.” “And Ellie is not sure why no one else is taking the rubbish out (sick-face emoji).” And so on. It’s blindingly obvious no good is ever going to come from your mum trying to intervene in a house beef about bins, but parent Facebook groups suggest this level of student stalking is far from unusual.
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On a Facebook group called What I Wish I Knew About University, video footage of entire halls of residence blocks are followed by requests from mums for precise bed measurements for mattress toppers and sheets, and distances from laundry facilities and shops. Room decoration has been elevated to a (colour co-ordinated) spectator sport. “Just a little insight into how their rooms can be transformed with a few accessories and a little glow-up,” one mum boasts in a freshers support group, posting all-angle pictures of the stunning full-on makeover of her son’s halls of residence room.
Someone in Nottingham wants to know how she can order a freshers wristband for her son (who may or may not want to take part in the activities, but just in case). Another wonders how she can give catered halls her child’s precise dietary requirements. A mum who lives three hours away is planning to visit London weekly with home-cooked food. Yet another has arranged for her daughter’s favourite treats to be delivered by DHL.
And then, taking smother love to a whole new level, there are the “open when” envelopes. “Open when you forgot to do laundry” (contains pants); “ . . . when you’re sick” (paracetamol, vitamin C); “ . . . when you can’t sleep” (self-heating eye mask); “ . . . when you miss my cooking” (Deliveroo voucher). Some students arrive with Costa cards loaded with money “because darling daughter loves her lattes”, and enough of their favourite dinners — lovingly batch-cooked and frozen — to last the term.
The most extreme helicopter parenting story I’ve heard involved a mum who, beyond frustrated with her son’s lack of effort, took matters into her own hands and completed the work for his Open University degree while he snoozed on. Another close friend has her son’s timetable stuck to the fridge door; after checking his location, she calls him at 8am most days, convinced he won’t wake up for his lectures.
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Studies have linked helicopter parenting with anxiety, depression and dissatisfaction in later life. By micromanaging students’ lives and jumping into conflicts for them, the unintentional message is: you’re not competent to get through this on your own. Yet it’s hard not to sympathise with the aching loss that fuels this kind of behaviour. The fact is, it’s difficult to let go. But we must. They’ll survive — and thrive — without us and they definitely don’t need our “open when” envelopes heaving with maternal need. I sent my eldest off to uni with a shoebox lovingly filled with uplifting messages, snacks and stamped addressed cards for each of his younger siblings’ birthdays. Unsurprisingly not one of them was sent. Recently he told me he couldn’t bring himself to open the box. “Sorry, Mum, just too much love,” he said.
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