Taking over the shepherd's role

Cavan Calling: Saturday, August 14th was gala day in the nearby village of Belcoo, Co Fermanagh. Unlike the weather at other local events we've attended, the day was hot and sunny and the crowds came out to play. To our delight, Tony and I were asked to judge the children's fancy dress competition.

It was clear from the standard of the competitors that many mothers had spent considerable time labouring over their children's costumes. There were four delightful tots dressed as characters from Winnie the Pooh. Another mother had the bright idea of dressing her three young daughters as a daisy chain, meaning even the smallest one in the push chair could take part. All the children looked fantastic.

As a judge, the difficult reality is that in order to pick winners there must also be losers. As a mother of four boys, I understand how crestfallen children can be when all their hope and effort goes unrewarded. After announcing the winners, I went on to say that we felt they all deserved a prize. For that reason, Tony had a bag of sweets and every child who had taken part in the competition could get some from him. Of course, Tony was then immediately surrounded by children eager to claim their prize. He coped admirably.

My own children are now well past the stage of fancy-dress competitions, but I can still recall the struggle to create costumes for various events. I became a dab hand at shepherds. For some reason, my boys were always cast as shepherds in the primary school Christmas play. When it was the turn of my son Sam, I excelled myself and acquired a toy lamb from the local Oxfam shop. It was the perfect finishing touch.

It doesn't matter how many children's nativity plays one attends, for parents they are always weepy events and this one was no exception. I watched my son and the other shepherds progress down the centre aisle and settle in front of the altar. A teacher then began to read the next part of the Christmas story. Unfortunately, within a few minutes a fight broke out among the shepherds - someone was trying to take Sam's lamb from him and he was firmly resisting.

Tearful maternal pride turned to social inadequacy. What was the right thing to do at a moment like this? Should I rush forward and drag Sam off the other shepherd, or should I let the teacher deal with it? Luckily order was quickly restored and the lamb was confiscated. We never got it back.

I suppose like all parents, I feel it is only yesterday my children were small, and I wonder where the years have gone. My youngest son will soon be 17 and my oldest 27. You really have to catch hold of and enjoy those childhood years as they are so special and so quickly over. Before you realise it they are young adults.

I was painfully reminded of this with my son, Will. He is no longer the small child whose woes could often be sorted with a cuddle and a sweet. He has recently learned in a brutal fashion that life can be terribly cruel. How do you comfort your 17-year-old son whose friend has committed suicide? At 17, death, in the natural order of things, should be something in the distant future. Not here, not now and certainly not self-inflicted.

I have cried at my own inadequacy to ease my son's pain and incomprehension. I am his mother. I desperately want to make his world right for him again.

Coming here to the mountains of west Cavan has helped to mend his wounded spirit in many ways. Long walks through the raw beauty of our surroundings and time spent staring at stunning night skies remind him life can be good. Bad things happen, but there is also so very much that is life-affirming.

Tony and I have never regretted for one moment our move to Ireland. I think our only regret is that it took us so long to make the decision - we should have done it years ago. We love where we live. West Cavan has to be one of Ireland's best kept secrets. We think the stories and jokes about Cavan are nothing more than a deliberate ploy by the inhabitants to keep the rest of you away from our wonderfully untouched corner of Ireland. We know the joke is on you.

Next week: An invitation from 10 Downing Street