The Daily Telegraph

DIARY OF A FIRSTTIME GRANDMOTHE­R (IT’S COMPLICATE­D)

This week: Granny stays with Rose as she waits for baby news

-

I’m tearing out of the door (minus a shoe) before the phone call is even over. This is it. I’m in labour. At least, it feels this way. I know my daughter’s done it before but I also know that each time is different: I’m scared for her – and that’s without the genetic condition which, according to doctors, the new baby has a 50 per cent chance of inheriting.

“I feel the same every time,” confesses Mega Gran as I ring her en route for moral support (Newish Husband is driving). “But this is the one thing you can’t do for them.”

What I can do, however, is be there for Rose. She’s asleep now, but how is she going to feel when she wakes up to just me? It also feels weird sitting on their sofa, waiting for news. (NH has gone home to be with the dog.)

So I tiptoe upstairs. The spare room is now the baby’s, so I have to go into the marital bed, which feels even weirder. I feel I ought to ring my first husband to tell him what’s going on, but I don’t want to step out of line – the etiquette in these matters is written in invisible ink. Besides, my daughter will have called him herself.

Just as I’m dropping off, my mobile goes. “Turns out my waters broke 48 hours ago” – I bite back the “I told you so” – “and they’re going to induce me, but there’s a problem.” My heart sinks. “What?” “I’ve left my glasses.” Is that all?

Her voice is plaintive. “I need them to see the new baby and my eyes are too dry for my contacts.”

Of course. As a nonspectac­le wearer, I hadn’t even thought of that. It’s too late to call NH. So I do what I sometimes used to do when the children left school uniform behind and I was at work – I call a taxi to pick up said glasses and hand over £58.

The youngish driver has clearly done this before. “No problem. Good luck. We’ve got five ourselves.”

There’s a cry from the top of the house. Our voices on the doorstep have woken up Rose.

I run up, but can’t open the new dastardly-buteffecti­ve stairgate into her room – her crying gets louder because she can see me, but not cuddle me.

Blow this. I vault the gate instead. Ouch!

Rubbing my knee, I pop in the dummy and stroke her cheek according to instructio­ns. Amazingly, she goes back to sleep in her new “grown-up bed”, which has taken place of the cot.

But I can’t do the same. My eye is constantly on the monitor in case Rose falls out. My other eye is on my phone. 12.10am, 2.43am. What is happening? My mind goes back to my three labours and two miscarriag­es when I was married to my first husband. My mother had rung the labour ward so frequently during my eldest’s birth that she was politely asked to refrain from making further calls. I’d been mortified then, but now I understand.

I doze off, only to sit bolt upright at 5.07am. Something has happened. I know it. At the same time, my mobile rings. “Mummy,” says a tearful voice. “I’ve had him.” Him?

“He’s beautiful and he looks just like Rose did when she was born.”

I can barely speak but, when I do, I repeat over and over again. “Is he all right? Are you all right?”

The answer is yes, although we now have a fortnight’s wait until the genetic tests come back.

“My darling girl,” I sob. “I love you.”

Then a little voice sings out imperiousl­y from down the landing. “Mummeee? Daddeee?”

Rose can’t quite say “Where the heck are you?,” but the meaning is clear.

Out with the old. In with the new. The next stage in our lives has begun. Then I remember. I forgot to ask my grandson’s name.

‘I doze off only to sit bolt upright at 5.07am. Something has happened. I know it. At the same time, my mobile rings’

 ??  ??

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from United Kingdom