The mother so over protective she made her toddler wear a crash helmet even at home...
THE wedding party was almost ready to set off. I took a deep breath, smoothed my ivory lace gown one last time and glanced around me. My bridegroom Cornel looked handsome and dashing in his morning suit, his lilac cravat toning beautifully with the flowers in my bouquet.
Our little boy Alex, then 11 months old, toddled behind me, so cute in his tiny suit he was almost edible — a perfect miniature of his father in every way.
Every way, but one. On my son’s head sat an ugly brown helmet, fastened tightly under his chin, and Cornel had j ust spotted it.
‘Oh no, Julie — not today,’ he sighed, rolling his eyes. ‘What about the photos? The guests will think we’re mad!’
‘The town hall is huge,’ I protested, ‘and it’s full of sharp edges and polished floors. What if he hits his head?’
Eventually, as my chief bridesmaid muttered about the time, a compromise was negotiated. I would agree to remove the helmet if Alex could remain strapped into his buggy throughout the ceremony. But at the hotel, where the reception was taking place, it would go back on — and stay on.
It’s not as if Alex wasn’t used to it. He wasn’t even a year old, yet he had become accustomed to living in an environment created for him by the world’s most overprotective mother.
Looking back, I was always rather anxious, but that’s normal for first-time mums. It wasn’t until Alex became mobile that my
I’d lost two babies and never thought he’d survive
parental paranoia really kicked in. He crawled quite early; he was barely seven months old. But the sight of my baby gleefully propelling himself across the floor of our front room made me feel quite ill.
My heart hammered in my chest. Beads of cold sweat prickled the back of my neck. I knew straight away t hat i t was a strange reaction, so I took deep breaths and told myself that learning to crawl was a perfectly normal development; something to be celebrated — another milestone passed in a child’s necessary exploration of the world around him.
So why, when other mothers might reach for their cameras, was I fighting the temptation to confine my boy in a playpen or a buggy? Why, when most women would actively encourage their infants, did I long to hold my child back?
I suspect the answers to those questions can be found in events that took place long before my son was even born.
Alex was the happy result of my third pregnancy. Before he arrived to make our dreams come true, I suffered two miscarriages.
I lost my first baby at nine weeks and the second one at six weeks. And all the time I was expecting Alex, I c ontinued to s how symptoms that indicated I might miscarry again.
So that whole pregnancy was spent in fear. From the very day I discovered I was having Alex, I became convinced I was about to lose him, too.
That he was eventually born safely was as much a surprise to me as a joy. When I finally accepted he was here — alive and healthy — the fear that he would share the fate of my first two babies was replaced by another fear. Suddenly, the world around me seemed unsafe.
While he was tiny, I convinced myself that I could keep any threat to my precious child at bay with ceaseless vigilance.
But as Alex grew and wanted to explore, our whole world, even our home, turned into a place full of dangers. It was all I could see. The edges of tables and drawers looked as sharp as blades. Short, out-of-reach blind cords, belts and bits of string were now strangulation hazards. Anything smaller than a tennis ball was a potential choking hazard. And heaven help any innocent men who smiled at my son in his pram. Potential child abductors, all of them.
When Alex started pulling himself upright, I began sticking big blobs of Blu-Tack on every sharp corner in our home in case his precious head should make contact with them. No table, dining chair or chest of drawers was safe from my paranoid attention.
I bought extra pillows and cushions, dozens of them, and placed them everywhere — against doors, skirting boards and cupboards. Our front room looked like the inside of a bedouin tent, but still I couldn’t relax.
So I went online and researched safety equipment. When Alex was about nine months old I found a company which produced helmets for babies and toddlers, so I ordered one, without telling Cornel.
‘What the blazes is that?’ he asked the first time he saw his son in it.
‘It’s a crash hat,’ I said sheepishly. ‘For what,’ he demanded. ‘Is Alex going to start motorcycle stunts?’ But I couldn’t be persuaded — or teased — into backing down. I thought the helmet was wonderful. I could cook, work, or do housework knowing Alex was safe. And I tried not to notice him tugging in irritation at the strap under his chin. I made my toddler wear it all the time at home, and obviously there was no way he would be
I saw nothing but a world full of dangers
allowed out of it at our wedding reception. And so, after we’d said our vows and moved on to the hotel, I buckled the helmet on to Alex’s head.
Every so often I’d notice friends throwing him rather puzzled looks. ‘ Does he really need that, Julie?’ one asked.
‘ Of course!’ I hissed, almost offended. ‘There’s a massive glass vase over there. And look at the sharp corners on those shelves!’
A few days later, when we posted our wedding photos online, questions began to flood in from friends who hadn’t been there.
‘I saw Alex wearing a helmet — is everything all right,’ asked one. ‘Has he got a head injury?’
Then another, an old childhood friend, asked more bluntly: ‘Why is t hat poor boy wearing t hat ridiculous hat?’
I offered my usual explanation; that the world was a f ar too dangerous place to unleash a wobbly-legged toddler. ‘ You can’t be serious,’ she told me. ‘Have you forgotten what a daredevil you used to be?’
Her words stung. They brought back my own carefree childhood in the Eighties — the long summer holidays when my friends and I were allowed to play outside until all hours, revelling in our i ndependence, never giving a thought to the bruises, bumps and splinters picked up along the way.
I would roller- skate downhill at breakneck speed and on a bike I was a total menace. I once went so fast that when I slammed on the brakes I catapulted myself headfirst over a neighbour’s parked car.
I was none the worse for any of it, although I can’t speak for the car.
In fact, the freedom my parents gave me taught me to be self-reliant, not to whine about minor injuries and to puzzle out my problems for myself. It made me strong.
I gazed at my son sitting on the floor in the safety of his own home, wearing a crash hat, surrounded by cushions.
His little face was full of the excitement and curiosity of a child aching to explore the world, and it broke my heart.
Was I protecting him — or smothering him?
My friends were right. Perhaps I needed to let go a little. With great reluctance, I put the helmet in the wardrobe. Cornel raised an exasperated eyebrow and pointed to the bin. So I threw it away. Then I picked off every piece of sticky Blu-Tack from the furniture
‘Why is that poor boy wearing that ridiculous hat?’
and offered up a silent prayer that Alex wouldn’t knock himself out. Over the next few months, Alex fell over countless times. On one occasion he fell on to the corner of my laptop and I rushed him to A&E. He didn’t even have a bruise.
The doctors told me that babies were resilient and to go home. They were right: he was fine.
As he grew, I lost count of the times he fell and cried; the times I had to put ‘magic cream’ on his bloodied knees. But as my husband says: ‘This is what little boys do.’
Nearly four years on, Alex has grown into a typically fearless little boy. He whizzes around on his bike like a miniature Bradley Wiggins, loves climbing trees and always seems to have rips in his trousers and scabs on his knees.
While I still feel that flutter of fear in my stomach when I see him career off on his bike, I tell myself it is normal; that I have to watch quietly from the sidelines, and that those minor injuries are just little markers of lessons learned on his journey to adulthood.
I finally realised that being a good mother is not only about protecting your child, but equipping them to survive i n the world — sharp corners and all.