Granny State Can the house handle a sleepover?

This week: Has the time come to make the house childproof?

‘Look out,” says Newish Husband. “She’s nabbed the pepper mill again.”

My fault. I forgot to move it. The same goes for the salt, the saucepans, the cutlery drawer and our new, designer mugs, which are at perfect toddler height in our kitchen.

“At least she’s not hurt,” I say, heading for the dustpan and brush before Rose cuts herself. “Besides, grabbing and chucking stuff is part of their development. It shows a curious nature. The trouble is that our house isn’t child-proof.”

“It shouldn’t have to be. This is our house.”

This is one of many occasions when I wish NH had sprogs of his own.

“Perhaps we’ll go back to her place,” I say. “It’s safer there.”

But when I get there, I find I’ve left the key to Rose’s house in my other handbag which I’d abandoned in our hall because I already have so much stuff to carry. Never mind, I’ve got my own house keys and on it, is a spare to Rose’s backdoor.

To get there, I have to manoeuvre the pram down a shared path. This also means moving dustbins. Eventually, we succeed – only to find that someone has left the key on the other side of the door so I can’t insert mine.

By now it’s raining and Rose has woken up, voicing her discontent. I want to cry, too. Instead, I ring NH who comes round with the front door key and then returns home. Rose and I are finally in a child-proof house with the right toys/equipment/ clothes. But it’s lonely without adult company. I find myself talking to Rose in the third person. “Shall Grannie play trains with you?”

I ring round the mafia to see if they want a playdate. They’re all busy – including Bad Gran, who’s about to go afternoon belly-dancing but still has time to impart advice. “You know,” she tuts, “you should just order the same stuff for your house as they have for theirs.”

I explain that NH isn’t keen on more stuff (although we do have a highchair) and I can visualise her rolling her eyes. “It’s one of the pluses of being divorced. You can do what you want. Mind you, I wouldn’t mind a man like yours.”

Two days later, sonin-law has to go away for work so my daughter and Rose are coming over for a three-night sleepover. They’re bringing the travel cot as well as enough stuff to fill the car. I’m really excited at the idea of having my girls under the same roof. But trouble starts before bathtime. “It’s freezing here,” says my daughter. “Can’t you put the heating on?”

It is on, but our home is a three-storey Regency house. It’s hot in the kitchen, where there’s an Aga, and decidedly nippy elsewhere. At 3am I hear Rose crying. So as not to wake NH, I tiptoe into my daughter’s old room. “She’s cold,” whispers my daughter accusingly. “I’ve had to take her into bed with me.”

I can’t sleep – I’m worried she will wake up and toddle out of the room. So I create a makeshift blockade, but it doesn’t solve the problem of the steep step outside their room. I sit there, in my dressing gown, like a sentry and doze off.

“What on earth are you doing there?” asks NH in the morning. I explain while daughter packs to go home early because “it’s easier at our place”.

The following day, a parcel arrives from Amazon. It contains cupboard locks, a stairgate and a fluffy navy toddler jumper. “I had a bit of a rethink,” says NH bashfully. “Rose is too precious for us to take any risks. Don’t you agree?”