A children's party and a child's pain

GIVE ME A BREAK:A baby's legs being broken in Zimbabwe put our own fears for our children's future into perspective

'DID YOU READ the story about the baby?" Blessing, a baby with a name given in hope, had his legs broken by politically-motivated thugs looking for his anti-Mugabe father in Zimbabwe. It was Sunday morning. The pot of tea and the croissants were ready on the table. None of us felt like eating.

The night before, we'd been celebrating the last day of primary school for our delightfully creative and rambunctious pre-teens, and setting off to various secondary schools and that painful teenage journey of self-discovery. One of the families organised a whale of a party - castle with bungie attachment, catered barbecue, disco - and everyone was welcome, including teachers, parents, grandparents, little brothers and sisters. And for a few glorious evening hours, it stopped raining.

"I want to enjoy these days when they're still with us," the host said, when I thanked him for his generosity. I know what he meant.

Our 12- and 13-year-olds are so anxious to get out into the world and find their place. And we parents know that the place they choose may be far away from us, especially now, with the ESRI warning of renewed emigration. There was such pleasure in having our children in our company as they jumped and bungied and danced with all the verve of midsummer's eve sprites until long after dark. And, call me naive, but I do think most Irish kids are allowed to hang on longer to their innocence than kids in other countries.

When babies in Zimbabwe are having their legs broken, it puts things in perspective. What right have we to mourn our children's leaving of primary school, when Agnes Mabhena, the wife of an opposition councillor, hears banging on the door and hides under the bed? When the Zanu-PF enforcers who support Robert Mugabe cannot find her, they yell, "She's gone out. Let's kill the baby." One of them slams the infant's legs and - too late for the child to ever walk normally again, but soon enough to let the child live - another in the gang says, "It is just a baby. Leave it alone."

So, were we sad to see our children growing up? Some of us were weepy. Others were thrilled to have got our kids to the point where they feel excited about going on to the next stage of their lives. But every milestone of childhood is a loss for parents. Some of us already had sons and daughters travelling in Australia and some feared they might never come back.

Earlier that day in church, as children played in the aisle, Labour party leader Eamon Gilmore handed out the certificates and stated a truth that sums up the best of Ireland. He told the children that they were separating now to pursue their various futures, but that in years to come when they met each other again, they would discover a bond so strong that they'd find themselves delighted to see one another, even if they didn't know each other that well in school.

He didn't say that the meeting place might be an airport, or a conference in LA or a barbecue in Australia, but we parents knew what he meant. The bonds of childhood, the shared experience, the knowledge that - even if you did fight like devils in the playground - you respect one another and share good, basic values.

At the party, parents were aware that their children were facing an economically challenging future. There was talk of once-invincible companies dissolving, yet there was almost a sense of relief that the crazy years are over. Parents were talking about heading down the country for weeks of rainy, rock-pooling holidays, of keeping family traditions of renting a particular house on the coast in Galway, Cork or Kerry - much more reassuring than glitzy Mediterranean destinations.

Reigning in ambition, hanging on to what you have, withdrawing into what you really believe in - that's what these parents were talking about. Yes, it was a relatively privileged crowd, although not everyone had capital to boast of. One of the grandads in the gathering, a self-made man who had created a household name company, sat over his prawn and chicken kebabs and remembered the 1980s recession and, more painful for him, the grinding struggle of Ireland long before that. "There was real poverty. Real poverty," he said, speaking of the long ago when the notion of children having a catered barbecue and a bouncy castle couldn't be imagined. What were we giving them that would last beyond money? He was lost for words. But I think I know. These Celtic Tiger children will be all right because we've given them far more than money.

I disagree that we've turned them into materialists. Instead, on their behalf we've rejected the oppressive and judgmental values of the past. We've given them freedom to be themselves, and yet they have learned to be kind to one other. They haven't grown up with the black shadow of the church judging them and so they have learned to be tolerant.

We parents aren't perfect, but we made our children's world. Let's not bungie-jump into despair and deny them the hope that got us through the 1980s. Get a grip, people. There are babies having their legs broken in Zimbabwe. Recession can't be all that bad.