Granny State

Get ready for the first sleepover...

‘You know,” says my daughter pointedly. “All my friends’ children stay with their grandparents one night a week. It gives them ‘couple time’.”

“Nonsense,” harrumphs Newish Husband. “I don’t mind babysitting, but we need sleep at our age. Besides, our house isn’t designed for a toddler. What if she has another accident?” He has a point. It’s only been two weeks since the door drama. And even though (thanks to NH), each handle is now wrapped up in a cream rubber protector, I still can’t help panicking about all the ‘what ifs’.

My daughter rings. “You know you said you’d have Rose for a sleepover?” Not exactly. “We’ve both got to go away overnight on trips next week, so could I drop her off at 3pm, the afternoon before?”

I decide not to tell NH until the day itself, when I casually drop it into his breakfast newspaper commentary. “It will be fine,” I say airily. “I’ll sleep in the spare bed next to the travel cot.”

My daughter, however, firmly dismisses this idea. “You’ll wake her up when you stir in the night.”

But surely that’s better than lying awake glued to the monitor, as I did when I spent the night at their place a few months ago? Besides, Rose is so active now, what if she manages to leg it over her cot and falls three floors over the banisters? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Sleep next to her and just don’t tell,” advises Bad Granny. “What they don’t know, doesn’t hurt.”

Rose arrives and I’m all fingers and thumbs. NH has commandeered the spare room as his study, so I have to ensure that paper clips and other hazards are well out of reach. At bath time, I produce three little ducks from my own childhood. To my horror – and her delight – they start to leak black from their insides. Terrified that I might have given her lead poisoning, I scoop her out and get her dressed. Then Rose grabs a pair of tweezers from the en suite. I try to distract her with a battered copy of Alison Uttley’s Little Grey Rabbit but she’s having none of it. How am I going to get her to sleep in this excitable state?

“Thought this might help,” says NH, popping his head around the door. “I ordered it just in case.”

A Noggin the Nog DVD? Yes. I know you shouldn’t put toddlers in front of the TV before bedtime – but it does work.

And I am exhausted. Now I know why my daughter and son-in-law go to bed at 8.30pm. But, as it turns out, Rose and I both go through the night. We also wake at the same time. 5.07am to be precise.

I see Rose grinning toothily from her cot and decide to take this as a compliment on my sleepover skills, rather than a comment on my morning eyebags.

We have a lovely walk along the seafront just as the sun is rising, and bump into another over-50 pram-pusher who has her three every Saturday night so that her single daughter can go out with friends. NH is still sleeping when we get back, but I have to wake him to look after Rose while I take a shower. (How on earth did I do any of this when I had three?)

I come downstairs to find a note. “Taken her out to buy Weetabix. She didn’t care for my muesli.”

“Everything all right?” asks my daughter when she arrives for pick up.

I come clean about sleeping in the spare room but not about the possible lead poisoning.

“Great! We’ll have to have a few more granny sleepovers, won’t we, Rose?”

I think of all the things I have to do and then our own couple time. “How about next Friday?” I find myself saying.

Next week: Granny discovers her inner child

‘At bath time I produce three little ducks from my own childhood. To my horror – and her delight – they start to leak black from their insides’