GRANNY STATE DIARY OF A FIRSTTIME GRAND MOTHERER (IT’ S COMPLICATED ))

This week: Am I holding Rose back from taking the plunge?

‘Try to sound more confident, otherwise, we can pass on fear to our little people’

‘One, two, three… into the water we go!”

It’s the dreaded Wednesday swimming lesson again. The instructor is brilliant; it’s me that’s rubbish. The good news is that I have managed not to give Rose a bump on the head since our last trip to A&E. The bad news is that we have progressed to the “jumping in without aid” stage.

Little Rose is now standing on the side, shivering in her miniature pink wet suit. I am in the water waiting to catch. “Come on, Rose,” I urge. All the others have leapt in but she isn’t sure. Nor am I. She’s barely one and a half. Isn’t she too little for this?

“Try to sound more confident,” urges the teacher. “Otherwise, we can pass on apprehension to our little people.”

Instantly, I’m back at school circa 1965. I’m teetering on the edge, just like Rose. I’ve completed my two long lengths in the pool and all I have to do is jump in the deep end to pass the white cap test. But I’m too scared to take that final leap because I’m convinced I’ll never come up again.

“I promise that you will,” says Miss Lewis. Eventually, a year later, I give in out of shame (everyone else had done it). And she was right. I did come up. But what if Rose swallows too much water?

“Never mind,” chirps the instructor. “You can try again next week. Time for the goodbye song now.”

Rose and I leave, feeling that we’ve both let each other down. “How did the lesson go?” texts my daughter. “Great,” I text back, feeling terrible about the lie. But I don’t want to be accused of holding Rose back.

“Nonsense,” says Newish Husband when we get home. “It’s nothing to do with your own fears. She just didn’t fancy jumping in.”

So while he eats, I push the pram to my daughter’s, where Rose screams with fury because I won’t let her eat fish fingers straight from the freezer. Ping. It’s a text from NH. “Sorry. Can’t give you a lift to dance-and-prance this afternoon because the car’s got to be serviced.”

I get a cold shaft of fear. That means I’ve got to drive Rose in my car. Despite having ridden a camel, climbed the Atlas Mountains and worked in a high-security male prison, I am too scared to take the wheel with my granddaughter in the back. The responsibility is just too much. I know it doesn’t make sense because I chauffeured my own three around when they were little. But there’s something different about a grandchild.

“Then we won’t go,” I text back. Ping. “But she loves it.” It’s true. I look at her sunny little face, chipping away at the fish fingers, and decide that I can’t allow my own fears to affect Rose’s life. The funny thing is that as soon as I’ve started the engine, I feel more confident.

The following week at swimming, Rose is the first to jump into my arms. This might have something to do with the fact that I’ve been practising my “exuding with confidence” beam all week.

“See?” says NH. “There’s no need to be scared of this granny stuff after all.”

That’s when I get it. “Did the car really have to be serviced?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It could have waited, but I thought you needed a bit of a prod. And it worked, didn’t it?”

Next week: Granny sustains a Rose-related injury