DIARY OF A FIRSTTIME GRANDMOTHER (IT’S COMPLICATED)

This week: We’re all going on a summer holiday... but there’s no time to relax with a toddler in tow

‘Our Menorcan villa turns out to be perfect. For a toddler-free family’

It’s 4.30am and our taxi is en route to Rose’s place round the corner, before ferrying us all to the airport. My son-inlaw is on the doorstep, a small excited bundle wriggling in his arms. My daughter is surrounded by a pile of suitcases, a buggy, a potty and the ubiquitous over-sized changing bag.

Newish Husband’s face is priceless. “Do they honestly need all this just for one week?”

The baptism of fire continues at check-in, where Rose makes a run for it through the security gate. Twice. “I thought this was going to be restful,” murmurs NH.

Our Menorcan villa turns out to be perfect. For a toddler-free family. “Careful,” I gasp, catching Rose as she tears excitedly along the corridors, narrowly missing table edges and door frames. Whoops! I’d forgotten how slippery Spanish floor tiles can be. How are we going to get through this without serious injury?

“Chill out,” says my daughter. “It will be fine. This is your holiday, too.”

She’s right. It is fine. In fact, it’s brilliant. Rose’s laughter as she splashes around the swimming pool (complete with prison-style safety netting) is infectious. So, too, is her utter delight at the ants on the patio, which she blows kisses to; the enthusiasm as she tucks into the chocolate croissants that NH buys every morning; and those gleeful squeals when the uncles give her piggybacks.

Then come the nights. My suggestion that Rose goes to bed at adult time like most Spanish niños, is met with horror. Her routine, apparently, must be adhered to. This is great during the evening because we can all recover from the day’s exertions. But not so good when she wakes at 11pm and then 2am and 4am thanks to teething, heat and noisy air conditioning.

By then the rest of us are awake, too. “She’s gone very quiet,” says NH on the third night. “Do you think she’s all right?”

I creep into the kitchen and find, rather disconcertingly that the front door is ajar. Then I tiptoe into the family room and stare with horror at a flat blanket in the travel cot. Daughter and son-in-law are zonked out in the next bed, with no sign of a toddler in their arms. “Where’s Rose?!” I scream.

Both spring up like wire puppets. The blanket starts to move and yell. “I’m sorry,” I say, bursting into tears. “I didn’t think she was there.” I try to redeem myself (and calm my nerves) by taking Rose for an early-morning walk to give everyone else a break. But we get so carried away by the discovery of a pirate ship in the playground that we receive a “where on earth are you?” phone call.

“Maybe we all need a day of our own,” suggests my daughter. So NH and I go exploring and find ourselves in a pretty bay. “I’ve been here before,” he says. “In the Eighties!”

My hackles rise. NH was renowned for his long line of leggy girlfriends over the years. “Who with?” I ask breezily.

He names one. I feel a stab of irrational jealousy.

Then the holiday is over. The 7am drive back to the airport is punctuated with Peppa Pig announcing from Rose’s ipad that “the party’s starting”. Too true.

“Where is her boarding card?” asks the girl on the check-in desk. I explain that the holiday company had told us we didn’t need one for under-twos. Her expression clearly reads “baby snatcher”. We then have an agonising hour’s wait while urgent phone calls are made to the airline’s UK headquarters. People are staring. Finally we are allowed through. Phew.

“I think we need a holiday,” says NH as we unpack.

“Just the two of us.”

Next time: It’s Granny to the rescue