DIARY OF A FIRSTTIME GRANDMOTHER (IT’S COMPLICATED)

This week: Granny has books, blankets and baby showers to deal with as she awaits the new arrival

Iknew we were risking it when my heavily pregnant daughter got on that plane. Fortunately, the air hostess finally allowed us all to take off. “I had to be careful,” she said. “Ten years ago, I ended up delivering a baby over the Atlantic. The parents named it after the airline.”

What a thought! I have visions of our vicar basting the new grandchild with the words “Ryan BA Flybe” in the hope of free flights for life.

Meanwhile, my daughter is so convinced this baby is going to be early that I am working like a dervish on my book, which shares the same delivery date.

I also have another problem. Knitting. This is not one of my skills, yet I felt moved to knit Rose a blanket when she was on her way. This means I’ve got to do the same for the second or else it might discover this omission when older, and feel hard done by. However, I’m only three inches in and I’ve got a ghastly feeling that the wool shop has sold me the wrong needles, because my work in progress doesn’t look sufficiently wide.

“Don’t worry,” says Newish Husband chirpily. “You could always use it as a bookmark instead. Or – here’s an idea – buy a new one and poke a few holes in it so it looks as though you made it yourself.”

Meanwhile, my daughter’s latest game is asking Rose whether Mummy’s having a “boy or girl”. Rose invariably plumps for the latter. “Is this a good idea?” I ask.

“Don’t be so boring, Mum. I’m just trying to get her involved.”

We’re also reading lots of “Mummy’s got a baby in her tummy” books. Poor kid. My heart goes out to my granddaughter as we snuggle up to one another in our special reading corner. She has no idea of the years of sibling arguments ahead.

I voice these thoughts (half-joking) to the Granny mafia during our yoga break, forgetting that one has a daughter-in-law with possible secondary infertility. No one says anything, but there’s a terrible silence.

I feel awful.

Then my mobile pings with a text from one of my daughter’s zillion best friends. She’s organising a surprise baby shower next Saturday. Could I bring her along without saying where she’s going? Now, I’ve never been a great admirer of this American tradition. Is it really a good idea to celebrate something that hasn’t happened yet and which – let’s face it – is full of possible pitfalls?

NH, for whom all of this is virgin territory, declares it to be ridiculous, “like soliciting wedding presents before the nuptials have been completed”. There speaks a retired lawyer.

The morning before the party, my daughter pops round. “I had a tiny bit of bleeding this morning but the midwife examined me and says it’s nothing to worry about.”

My suggestion that she get it checked out in the maternity unit is met with scorn. After all, I’ve only had three children. What do I know? We go to the baby shower (which my daughter duly pretends to be surprised by) and I have a great time nattering to her friends about cot positions, feeding and post-birth sex. Everything nowadays is done in the opposite manner to my day: in fact, I’m surprised their bumps don’t grow inward instead of out.

Then, the following night at 9.15pm, the landline goes. I’m in the middle of writing, so I ignore it. The mobile joins in. I miss it. The landline strikes up again. I grab it just in time.

“Mum.” My daughter’s voice sounds like she’s four years old again. “I think I’m in labour. Are you ready?”

Next week: Granny and Rose stay up all night, waiting for news

‘I’ve only had three children. What do I know?’