DIARY OF A FIRSTTIME GRANDMOTHER (IT’S COMPLICATED)

This week: Granny realises they really do grow up fast

So I am finally off to Cuba for a week with Newish Husband. I will only be missing two granny days, but in an effort to make up for lost time, I help out with a morning walk and bath time before we go.

Rose’s other grandparents don’t live nearby and when we don’t have regular backup, it opens a big childcare hole.

Thank heavens, then, for my daughter’s friends who, despite having their own sprogs, have manfully rearranged their own schedules of part-time work, baby swimming lessons and ‘prance ‘n dance’ to look after Rose.

“So sorry to cause all these problems,” I tell my daughter before we leave. “It’s fine,” she says.

But I still feel that I’m in the doghouse, even if it’s my own guilty conscience that has put me there. “You’ll be getting my nickname soon,” says Bad Gran when I tell her.

At the airport, I find myself sat next to a young mum with a toddler on her knee. “How old?” I ask. She edges away.

“My granddaughter is 16 months now,” I add, keen to establish my credentials.

She walks away. “I thought you didn’t talk to strangers,” says Newish Husband, amused. I never used to, but I’m already homesick for Rose.

We’ve been bumped up to first class (a miracle!) and thankfully there are no children. I couldn’t cope with the painful twinges. It might sound silly but I have a yawning gap that only Rose can fill.

Thankfully, there is lots to see in Cuba. I’m not talking about the buildings with Che Guevara’s face plastered all over them, but the mothers with children who seem to understand my schoolgirl Spanish when I tell them I am a granny.

I spend ages pondering over dresses for Rose on street stalls before settling on a wooden box with ‘‘you are my treasure’’ engraved inside. I agonise over the intermittent Wifi, which means we can’t talk on Skype. When we get home, I wilfully push jet lag to one side for my next granny day, arriving just before daughter and son-in-law leave for work at 7am.

But is this really Rose before me? Her Titian hair is done up in pretty little bunches. My baby has turned into a proper little girl in the space of a week.

“Gan,” she says, rushing towards me. She’s never said that before!

“We’ve been working on it,” says my daughter, as I scoop up Rose. “Ah look, she’s cuddling you! She kept pointing to your photograph when you were gone.”

That’s not all. Rose, it seems, has learnt to pack a punch. In the week I’ve been away, she’s entered the ‘‘terrible twos’’, even though she’s not old enough yet.

“She’s hitting people,” whispers my daughter. “It’s so embarrassing.

If she does it at toddler group, say ‘NO’ loudly.”

Hah! That never worked in my experience. But I suspect this is something my daughter needs to learn for herself. So off we go, singing on our way. The playleader has the crafts table set up and – whoops! Rose has just belted her best friend on the shoulder. Even worse, I can’t argue her case because she’s left a red paint handprint. Poor boy didn’t even have time to put on a pinny.

Within seconds, the room looks like a bloodbath. There’s red paint everywhere. One of the other grans has even started crying. Then I realise it’s laughter and soon we’re all hooting uncontrollably. When you get to our age, you know there are far worse things than toddler tantrums.

Still, I might not tell my daughter, there’s no point worrying her about it, right?

‘Within seconds, the room looks like a bloodbath. There’s red paint everywhere’