Baby on board

IT happened so quickly. Just recently, not one but two wake-up calls about the terrifying fragility of these tiny souls entrusted to us; the enormous freight of responsibility that's at times almost too much to bear.

Both involving the child who feels like he was placed on this Earth to be adored, nothing else; the medieval kissing post we're all drawn to in wonder and shock that he's among us in the first place, sneaking in under the goal posts with that look of utter chuff on his face.

So. Dashing off to lunch; zippily happy, a day of high heat. The baby strapped in his car seat; car keys tossed to the front seat as they always are. His door is shut. I go to open the driver's door as I've always done; a mindless ritual of motherhood. But ... lockdown. What? The car garlanded with all its fancy electronics has stubbornly sealed off every door to me. With the baby inside. The windows are firmly shut. In a dark-coloured vehicle that'd been baking, viciously, all morning.

I didn't have long. The air inside was thickly hot. I couldn't get into my locked house. My neighbour rang the police and roadside assistance; the car was frantically hosed. The precious babe was getting increasingly redder in his cocoon of death; sweat beading his tiny face. OK, yes, I'm crying now as I write this - the minutes ticking, too long; the ghastly memory of it all.

The police screamed down the street; two roadside assistance vehicles not far behind. They worked swiftly, with little talk; they'd done this before. Their urgent ballet involved tiny blow-up pillows swiftly inserted between all windows to let oxygen in but it still took excruciatingly long; these newfangled cars are buggers to break into. Eventually they hooked the keys with a metal rod and with sheer force bent the metal window frame to get the keys out. A minute more and they'd have smashed the glass. Jago's saviour was a milk bottle I'd shoved into his hands.

And the little man himself? Smiling, gurgling, through the entire drama. That's the fourth child for you - he'd never had so much attention in his life. How had it happened? Still don't know. The rescuer shook his head despairingly. "I tell you, the locking systems on these fancy new cars." If they go wrong, they go catastrophically wrong.

And just a week earlier: arriving home to a babysitter in a house whose power had bizarrely shorted. Once again at the mercy of a fiddly new electronic world suffering catastrophic failure. Our fancy communications system means the phone and internet are all connected electronically and yes, I'm the last person on Earth without a mobile (this will change). So I couldn't ring out. Once again, my goddess neighbour to the rescue. The emergency electrician flummoxed. A methodical check of every power point revealed the culprit: a power board behind an armchair with a cord that had been chewed through. By a puppy who's followed religiously by his adoring, tumbling, giggling little mate. It's a wonder the baby was still alive, let alone the dog. There are safety switches but an adult would still get a shock if the severed cord had been touched - and a baby's heart would've stopped. The electrician told me he'd attended two electrical fatalities last year involving children.

Hold them close. Even when you're exhausted, screaming for peace and quiet. Show, on your face, how delighted you are to see them. Always. Blogger Rachel Noble lost her beautiful Hamish in an accident six months ago - "every mother's unbearable, unthinkable nightmare". He was Jago's age. She writes bravely, so bravely in her blog Mummy Muddles, and her words resonate for all parents. "Even those who haven't lost children say they now hold their children more, and for longer. I think that's a lovely legacy for my darling." Her gift to Hamish. And to us.

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