The mother of all tragedies

They say that memory fades with time and children are not likely to remember anything that occurred before their fourth or fifth birthday.

I challenge any parent who dares say he or she never did anything they may have later regretted or shuddered about- Michela Spiteri

I definitely remember falling down the staircase that led from our landing to the roof when I was about two, if that. Aged three, I remember another mishap, this time in a swimming pool belonging to a family friend; the sort of pool which goes from shallow to deep with a sudden sharp drop. I remember falling off a step, being suddenly submerged by water and the fleeting sensation of drowning for half a minute until I was rescued.

Both days which are clearly etched in my memory and which could so easily have ended tragically in another life, stand out as blips in an otherwise very protected, to say nothing of over protective, childhood and upbringing. My mother, who was about 29 when she had me, was incidentally the sort of mother who’d have handcuffed her children to her hip if she could. When friends of mine were allowed to cross the road without supervision, I was still holding her hand. And I was probably still sitting at the back of her car when I was manifestly overgrown. She was and remains an excessive worrier.

Although I reckon I’m a far more permissive parent, I was a hopelessly devoted first-time mother. Until my son was about five and of school age, I would definitely have fallen into the category of overbearing mothers who now make me nauseous.

School tends to burst the motherhood bubble and knock you back to your senses because you are made to give up a lot of your jurisdiction and parental sovereignty. Once you get to the stage where you are okay letting your son or daughter ride a school bus driven by a perfect stranger who may as well be Jack the Ripper, you become strangely fatalistic and far more realistic. Letting go is perhaps one of the hardest parts of parenting, but a very crucial part of the process if you want to hang onto your sanity.

I definitely ticked all the frantic mother boxes. I was sickeningly hands-on and obsessive, hardly ever letting my son out of my sight. And still, there were occasions when I did screw up. Times, when, overcome by sleep deprivation I succumbed to ‘cheating’ and got my son into bed with me – an apparent ‘no-no’ according to all the baby books – whereupon he rolled right off and onto the floor. And other times, when I really didn’t have a choice but to leave my son alone for a minute or three. Not in the bath-tub – but out of sight never the less.

I took the sort of calculated risks every mother and father take the world over. And I challenge any parent who dares say he or she never did anything they may have later regretted or shuddered about, in that very ‘but for the grace of God’ sort of way. The truth is that there are far more shortsighted risks that go unmentioned and unnoticed for the simple reason that most people are lucky enough to get away with them, or, if not, have a personal interest in keeping under wraps. It’s the one or two that end in disaster or which are leaked to the media that we hear about.

A friend of mine, in the 40 age bracket, whom I would unhesitatingly describe as one of those sensible, practical, down to earth, quasi-perfect sort of mothers, nearly lost her son in her own swimming pool a couple of years ago.

He was apparently purple when she found him floating in the pool. By some miracle he was resuscitated. I remember getting goose bumps when I happened to meet her a few months later and she relayed how the incident had happened; one of those domestic tragedies which could so easily have been you or me which mercifully had a happy ending. You see close shaves and near misses are the rule when raising children. Each day that goes by without incident is in fact a little miracle.

I was horrified to learn of Baby Roselana’s death. But so much more horrified at the assumptions, speculation and public condemnation with the usual back-seat frustrated judges among us demanding this poor mother’s arrest and prosecution, barely hours after losing her daughter, in what must be the worst, most heart-wrenching sort of pain.

The public seem to have rationalised what happened by blaming it on the mother’s young age – a clear case of reproach at ‘children being brought up by children’ – when we all know that our grandmothers and mothers weren’t that much older and this so easily could have happened to a 30- or 40-something-year-old.

If Roselana’s mother was 47 instead of 17, the public may have been far readier to put it down to a genuine accident. And they’d have been even more forgiving had she been in her own home when the incident happened, dealing with a ‘grown-up’ domestic crisis or perhaps answering her doorbell. That she was at a friend’s house and probably on Facebook (that capricious, teenage root of all evil) seems to have irritated the public no end – understandably perhaps.

Tragedies are ageless, classless and timeless. They’re bolts from the blue that hit the most professional, corporate, mature, married, sensible and affluent among us – the McCanns and Kennedys alike. Some children thrive against all odds. Others meet an untimely end when their lives are rudely and abruptly interrupted. It’s at moments like these, that the Maltese should play the God card and trust in His will.

Compassion is fitting in such circumstances and a recognition that if this poor girl does summon the strength to go on, she will never forgive herself or recover from this ugly and devastating loss.

michelaspiteri@gmail.com