Colm O'Regan: Keeping my children safe isn't child's play

Comedian and Irish Examiner columnist Colm O'Regan pictured in Cork. Picture: Denis Minihane.

The Youngest is doing the Lotus position. She casually tucks her feet on top of her thighs. 

She smiles up at me, and says: “Can you do this Daddy?” No pet. I most certainly can not. And we are not going to discuss the matter further. 

If you want to do that kind of thing you’ll have to do it in another room or my knees will write a strong letter to the ombudsman, complaining about distressing content.

There’s nothing like the incredible and growing physical confidence of a child to put you in the “fading light of the day gradually replaced by the tendrils of the Everlasting Dark” mood. It creeps up on you.

One minute you’re telling them to ‘be brave’ in the playground as they reach for the monkey bars. And then the next minute you try to show them how to do the monkey bars and feel your shoulders dislocate with the sound of pulling rhubarb.

I recently hurt my back and cannot trace the moment when it happened. I may have done it while punctuating or expressing an opinion.

I don’t want to inhibit their sense of adventure with my physical caution. I suppose it’s my job to keep them safe. Firstly for their own safety. Then selfishly because if they fall off that wall, “that’s the holiday ruined for everyone isn’t it? All because someone wouldn’t do what they were told.” 

I probably project onto them the danger because if I imagined myself in that situation, “and I’ve read so many stories of what happens. Oh god, the thoughts of it.”

DECREPITUDE

I can’t imagine them successfully jumping down from something because I know what it would do to my joints with their clapped-out shock absorbers. But they are bouncy little dune buggies. I’m a 1983 Toyota Corolla that gave great service and brought trailer loads of pigs to Bandon Mart in its day but whose shocks are calcified now. 

I’m exaggerating my decrepitude, of course, and that’s part of the fun of the mid-40s. But maybe it’s starting to leak out. 

Occasionally I can hear words coming out of my mouth that make me look at myself and say “did you just tell that child she could end up impaling herself on that dishwasher door if she’s not careful. If she carries on? Really?” I went straight to impaling.

Thankfully they’re good and robust and shake off the cuts and bruises of normal falling relatively quickly. They’re entering the sweet spot of falling now where they don’t take it as personally. 

Toddlers are completely offended by the world conspiring against them. Children fall well. Adults fall badly because they’re worried about embarrassment on the way down or they’re carrying something and their lizard brain isn’t engaged in time to break the fall.

REPORTED AS URCHINS

I saw a rather disturbing picture online. A map of a British town and on it was marked four successive generations and how much a member of each was allowed to wander when they were eight years old. 

The great-grandfather could cycle eight miles to go fishing. The grandfather could play in the woods a mile away. The mother was allowed to walk to the shop half a mile away and the current child can walk 300 yards by themselves.

How far will ours be able to wander by themselves? They are asking questions now about “where can they go”. It’s fine by me but do they need to wear a bib that says “Under remote supervision” to stop someone else reporting them as lost urchins.

The youngest is up on the counter now. For no reason only the joy of being up high. And access to the biscuit tin.

I’ll leave her be. What’s the worst that could happen?

I’ll tell you the worst thing. Because I’ve heard stories.