They drive Kias and Toyota 4WDs.
They spend way too much time in Facebook mother’s groups. They worry about NAPLAN and nappy rash and the cost of childcare.
The women mainly work part time so they can be there at the school gate. Their husbands – some white collar workers in the city, others in creative industries, some tradies – work longer hours. There are a few stay at home dads who relish their role, thrilled to be so involved in their children’s lives. A small business owner, a couple who do something in the public service. A teacher.
They are devoted loving, caring parents.
The kids do ballet and tennis and rugby and AFL and on the weekend their parents ferry them around to birthday parties in parks and trampoline centres, to sausage sizzles and play dates.
But when its finished, when the wrapping has been swept away, when the BBQ has been scrubbed clean of grease, when the scooters and skateboards are packed away they gather in the suburbs. Around flood lit backyards, or perched on kitchen bar stools. There they happily drink wine and laugh and each take turns snorting short fat lines of cocaine while their kids play backyard cricket and Minecraft on their iPads.
They aren’t particularly wealthy. They aren’t fancy stockbrokers or movie stars. They are suburban mums and dads in suburbs just near you, probably in yours – definitely in mine – and they think it’s perfectly okay to take cocaine while their children play in another room.