How to handle the cold shoulder

This week: the summer holiday is here, but Granny is feeling the cold shoulder

‘I hadn’t banked on the break coinciding with Rose hitting the terrible twos’

Iused to think that the worst thing that could happen on one of my granny days – apart from another trip to A&E – was for Rose to lose her new front teeth or her just-bought white sandals. The first had already happened to one of her friends, who tripped over the toddler trike; at least the second is redeemable, if not pricey.

The one thing I didn’t consider was that Rose might go off me.

Until now, I’ve taken great delight in the way her little arms encircle me – especially in the company of people she doesn’t know very well. It’s as if she’s saying: “I feel safe with you, Granny. You’re special.”

But now the summer holidays are here, and as Rose’s parents are both teachers, my official two-day-a-week unpaid job has come to an end for a while. Suddenly, my granddaughter is giving me the cold shoulder. Of course, it’s natural that Mummy and Daddy should come first – but I can’t help feeling wounded.

“Why don’t I try leaving the two of you alone?” suggests my daughter.

I leap at the chance. We’ll be fine when the competition is out of sight; I just know it. But I hadn’t banked on the break coinciding with Rose hitting the terrible twos, which, to be fair, had been creeping up ever since she learned the word “No”. This applies to anything she doesn’t fancy doing, including the essential nappy change that crops up within seconds of my daughter shutting the door. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d staged it as a Granny Sats test.

“Come on,” I coax, as I struggle to undo the vest poppers. “We’ve done this hundreds of time before…”

But Rose is having none of it. Limbs are flailing all over the place and, just as I reach for the baby wipes, she does a quick about turn and is off through the French windows, heading for the back gate. To her fury, she can’t reach the latch but she has a valiant attempt at squeezing through the cat flap.

“It’s no good,” I yell up the stairs. “You’ll have to come down.”

By now, Rose is rattling the stair gate like a prisoner trying to get out of jail. When her mother comes into sight, Rose falls into her arms as if she hasn’t seen her for 30 days instead of 30 minutes. The feeling is clearly reciprocal.

“Don’t worry,” says my daughter with a beatific smile on her face. “She probably sensed I was still here. Maybe I ought to actually go out next time. Pooh – is that a nappy I smell?”

Rose has done another in the excitement, but does she create merry hell? No way. Instead, she actually – get this – trots off to the nappy box to bring the necessary and then lies down on the ground ready to be changed by her mother. I feel even more like a failure.

The following day, my daughter drops her off at our place. Rose’s eyes light up – but not at me. It’s our dog who has rushed up to greet her. “Jack!” she crows (he was one of her first words). From then on, it’s plain sailing. We go for a lovely pushchair walk through the park without any tears or tantrums.

My daughter is back within the hour. “Did you miss Mummy?” she asks.

Rose almost bursts her highchair harness. My daughter’s face is ecstatic. And that’s when I realise. Like every young mother, she just wants her children to love her more than anyone else in the world. At some point, she’s going to have to share Rose with a husband (if they’re still fashionable when she grows up), but we’ll face that when it comes.

“Group hug,” says my daughter, holding out her arms. The three of us are cheek to cheek. It’s all right again. Until the next time.

Next week: We’re all going on a summer holiday