Granny State
There’s a new gran on the block
‘New Gran used to be an MD, but says this is far more terrifying’
Ping. I get a WhatsApp from my son-in-law. “Rose just rang my number. Everything all right?” It must have gone through when she was playing on the phone. “Fine,” I reply. “That’s good. Thought she was making an emergency call.” At her age? Ha ha. Rose shoots off across the landing; I run behind in pursuit. I trip, smash my back against the wall and feel a terrible pain shooting up my spine.
“Was it like this with your three?” asks Newish Husband as he rubs arnica into my spine.
I start to list the various trips over the years to A&E; the youngest got concussion after falling three inches from the sofa – but we run out of time. I’ve only got ten minutes to harness Rose, pack her extensive day bag (which puts Mary Poppins’s holdall to shame) and get my knickers back on. Today is a Granny Away Day – and I’ve been promoted!
That’s right. I’ve now progressed from mentee to mentor after meeting a new granny at an activity club. In a previous life, she was an MD. “This is far more terrifying,” she confides. I find myself offering to be her granny buddy. After all, I’ve learned from the master, Mega-Gran. So we all agree to go to a local adventure park.
We have a fantastic time straddling toy tractors and playing in the soft ball park, and so do the kids. There’s quite a group and between us, we’ve notched up 2.5 husbands apiece so there’s plenty to talk about. But it’s the “fastening problem” which really gets us worked up. “Why are they all so different?” asks NG. “It took me ages to work out how to get Gawain into his highchair this morning. He had to show me how to do it. And don’t even get me on to the buggy straps. It would be so much simpler if all the manufacturers got together and produced a uniform design. Whoops!”
I catch Gawain just before he topples out.
When I get home, I find Newish Husband on the phone with a travel brochure that reads ‘Cuba’ in bright letters. My heart leaps. This particular destination has been on my wish list for yonks and even though NH doesn’t dance, I have visions of us salsa-ing down a cobbled street.
“That’s sorted then,” I hear him say. “Thanks. The boss will be thrilled.” Then he puts down the receiver and beams. “It was a special deal. I had to do it then and there or we’d have lost it.”
The date is during school term when Rose’s parents both work. “Impossible,” I exclaim.
“You’ll only be missing two days. Can’t you find a replacement?”
In vain, I try to explain it’s not that easy. Toddlers don’t just go to anyone. Who else can keep Rose safe?
“I think it would be good for us to have a week alone together,” says NH.
He’s right. But I don’t want to let down my daughter.
To calm my mind, I cycle off to evening yoga. It’s my first session since the fall and I find myself unable to lie flat on my back without squirming.
So I book an appointment with the chiropractor who declares that I’ve sprained my sacro-something. The cure is ultra-sound and rest. “Great,” says NH. “More reason to go to Cuba.”