You can’t keep your children safe all the time
My daughter was 18 months old, a reasonable walker but still wobbly. She couldn’t really climb. Our garden was enclosed by a bolted gate on one side and a series of self-made ‘blockages’ on the other. The gap between the shed and the fence was closed off by an old chest of drawers and the garden waste bin. Beyond these the driveway and a closed gate leading onto the road.
It was child proof.
It was summer and the back doors were open. Both kids ran freely from house to garden and back again. I helped my son with some craft. It was less than a minute before I wondered mildly where my daughter was. I poked my head round one side of the house, no sign. I walked to the other side, she must be near the washing line…
The chest of drawers was in the same place but instead of being insurmountable it now looked just about low enough for small legs to scramble over. The garden bin was missing. The driveway gate was wide open.
Child proof, not fate proof.
Terror blanched my brain. Physiology took over and a wild mix of adrenaline and panic sent me careening towards the road. I saw her on the other side; oblivious and grinning. I willed her to stay put. I ran and grabbed her - held her like I wanted to absorb her back into me.
We live on the corner of a wide road. It’s not especially busy but it’s a rat run. Slick cars whip down the street pumping bass notes into the homes of people too old to hear them. She’d crossed that road taking small, slow uncertain steps and didn’t get hit.
She was fine, but the episode floored me. We went back to the house and locked everything. The walls seemed unstable, like they were no longer able to keep us safe. The ground shifted. I couldn’t keep hold of a single solid, concrete thought. I vomited.
Over the next few days I recounted events to anyone who would listen. It was like breaking my fear up into small chunks and offering it around, “hey, have some of this. Lighten my load won’t you.” People insisted I shouldn’t blame myself or feel guilty, but I didn’t feel guilty. Guilt would suggest I’d willfully overlooked something, left it to chance - said “she’ll be right” and took a punt.
I didn’t take any chances because I knew she was safe. I didn’t know someone had come to read the water meter. I didn’t know they’d moved the bin to get access to the garden and not re-blocked the gap. I didn’t know they’d left the driveway gate open. I didn’t know in the previous 24 hours my daughter had developed just enough strength to climb over the drawers.
I felt sick for what might have happened, I felt worse for those who hadn’t been so lucky. Good, diligent people who for the want of a few extra seconds may too have avoided the unthinkable.
Fate turns on a dime and there’s only so much we can do to stop life falling into the abyss. That’s what freaked me out about that day. Having taken all reasonable precautions, events colluded to put my daughter in harm’s way. It didn’t make sense. I kept her 100%, cast-iron, money back guaranteed safe. That was my job.
Panic and paranoia started to suffocate spontaneity and freedom. Daily life became a series of second, third and fourth checks. I didn’t go anywhere with the kids unless I absolutely had to. If we did venture out the trip was dogged by the potential for something terrible to happen.
Finally one of my more pragmatic friends ran out of patience and pulled me round.“You can’t make it safe for them all of the time. The more you try the more chance you have of sending them into the world terrified of their own lives. And that’s far worse than whatever it is you’re doing your damndest to avoid.”
For the last ten years Victoria has been writing about music. Like most things in her life her young children are starting to wheedle their way into her words. You can find her on Twitter here.
How do you protect your children from perceived danger? Are you free range or helicopter in your parenting?
