‘TINDER FOR KIDS’ Parents warned about dangers of new app

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He smiles with friends and family, but behind those brown eyes is pain. We caught up with co-founder Katie to find out more about this exciting tech startup that is taking the UK and Australia by storm.

Rachael Watkins, 28, moved from London to Essex in May last year while she was pregnant with her first child. Sir, please get off of Tinder and read your kids a bedtime story. He also thinks Muscle Milk is a viable snack option.

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It's a warm late-summer night in New York's West Village, and I'm on my way to rendezvous with a woman I met on the Internet. Or, more accurately, a stranger my mom met when she was pretending to be me on her phone. She'd arranged the meeting through Tinder, my Tinder, in hopes of finding me a girlfriend. I only knew the woman's first name, and as I got closer to the bar where we'd agreed to meet, I saw a young brunette just outside. This had to be her. I heard my mom's voice in the back of my head from a few days earlier. I think you should get to know people. I have not had a girlfriend for four years. When she was 26, my mom was married to her high school sweetheart, the man who took her to the prom in a goofy Volkswagen Beetle. By 28, she'd have her first baby. That baby was my brother, who at 26 had already been with the woman he would marry for six years. But unlike when my mom was 26, there is now, quite literally, an app for this. It's called Tinder, and it's a floating box on your iPhone that you can touch when you have no one to touch. To me, Tinder had always been merely something to do to pass the time, like a sexually charged version of Candy Crush. More than being with someone, Tinder creates the illusion of not being without anybody, a way to remember that there are indeed a lot of fish in the sea, and a great number of these fish might want to have sex with you. And if my mom is so intent on my having a girlfriend, then why shouldn't she just go out and find one for me? So I pushed her into that sea, disguised as me. Her mission was to spend a few minutes each day doing some swiping and chatting with women who'd already been right-swiped, and right-swiped back. If she made a good enough impression as a six-foot-one, 26-year-old GQ writer and was granted permission to take a match for a drink—or a walk in Battery Park, as it turned out she constantly kept offering—she would give them my cell phone number, they would text me the real me , and we'd figure out a time and place. I asked if she'd like to meet for coffee or a drink. She texted me she was in bed. Is that code for something? Maybe she just picked you, from your Tinder page. She grew up the daughter of a minister and ran our house with a similar hand—not tyrannical but firm, the matriarch of two boys. Three if you count my dad, and she does. She was almost always bad cop, an imposer of midnight curfews with that uncanny mom ability to be deep in sleep at 11:58 P. Like most parents, she was on the receiving end of much teenage vitriol and almost none of the deserved gratitude. And since she was, in fact, always right, we talked often. I changed the subject. Did she hate my writing that much? And they were working to start conversations—well, sometimes—even if those conversations were with classmates I'd forgotten I'd attended high school with, or about where my mom used to work…and go to the gym…and buy organic groceries. But, days in, even with her increasingly deft ability to start conversations, my mom still had not found me a date. Intimacy is about being kind, being nice to somebody. Patting somebody on the back, or holding hands. There's a whole range of things that make you connected to somebody that has nothing to do with the act of sleeping together. Something you have in common that you interact with them on a regular basis and then you can kind of see, 'Do I like them? And now: Oh, they liked me! So what do you say? In a way, she and I were communicating more than ever. Days later my mom, having overcome the minor Vanity Fair—triggered setback, managed to land me a date. After an extensive conversation on Tinder, my mom asked a brunette named Anna if she'd like to get a drink. She said yes, and so my mom sent her my phone number. She texted me, and we agreed to meet at a bar in the West Village. She was waiting outside when I got there. The date was bad. We had nothing in common outside of the fact that we both had eyes and jobs. We spent an hour together and had two drinks each. The plan all along was to tell her that it had actually been my mom talking to her, using my Tinder, but I very quickly had a crisis of conscience. I realized that many people do use the app as a means of connecting with new people with success! Of course, not saying it didn't make it any less true, which doesn't make me feel great. The date ended and we went our separate ways. Sex was not involved. So I was more drawn to the ones that liked to sky dive, or liked to ski, or play lacrosse. I thought about my mom and dad. I wondered if nowadays, with an endless stream of people to be right-swiped into your life, you would notice the guy on the yearbook staff who drives you to a meeting on a snowy day—or would you be in the passenger seat, swiping through pictures of thirsty dudes you don't even know? I wondered who you might miss seeing if you were always looking. Not long after my mom failed to find me Internet love, a friendship with a girl I'd met about a year before grew into something more. She's 30, has a real, actual pulse, and has never been on Tinder in her life. We met in person and then reconnected via Twitter DM, a romantic device my mom is definitely not yet familiar with. We don't live in the same place, and we aren't dating, though we try to see each other when we can. We're good where we are, and happy not to define it. When I tried to explain that to my mom after I flew to the Bahamas to be with Katie over Christmas, she didn't really get it. My grandma recently asked me how my new girlfriend was, even though I don't have one. It was just different than what they grew up with, I guess. © 2018 Condé Nast. The material on this site may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, cached or otherwise used, except with the prior written permission of Condé Nast.

Everything and nothing could reduce me to tears at that gusto. We what is tinder for mums delighted that Mush has resonated with so many. I asked if she'd like to meet for coffee or a drink. Whether it is simply conversing through the app, or meeting in person, that social interaction has proved invaluable. The support and goodwill are there for the taking. That support was fab. But a new app is aiming to help balance your worries with a matchmaking service that'll get you some new mates in the same mummy boat. A post shared by mushmums on Mar 30, 2017 at 12:00am PDT In your file, are there any challenges unique to female founders. And according to the algorithm, these less than desirable human beings were very much on my level. Dubbed 'Tinder for mums', Mush works in a similar way to dating apps, allowing users to create a profile detailing the area of the el they live in, ages of their kids and their interests. We caught up with co-founder Katie to find out more about this exciting tech startup that is taking the UK and Australia by storm. Peanut is an app to reflect modern motherhood.