DIARY OF A FIRSTTIME GRANDMOTHER (IT’S COMPLICATED)

This week: Granny moves in after the birth

‘Mummee!” demands Rose when I appear at her bedroom door on the morning of her brother’s birth.

She shoots past me to the marital bedroom. “Daddee?” Oh, oh. We’re in for trouble. “Mummy and Daddy are in hospital with the baby,” I say.

Amazingly, she seems to accept this. One of my granny friends, a scarily bright scientist, drew biological diagrams for her three-year-old grandson so he could see what comes out of where.

But I’m not going there. It will be confusing enough when Rose realises that Baby actually lives outside Mummy’s tummy, rather than in it.

So instead, we make breakfast and settle down to a copy of It’s Not My Otter borrowed from the library. “Wet,” Rose keeps saying.

“That’s right! Otter lives in water!” How clever is that? Then I realise she’s talking about her nappy. Whoops. Forgot that one. It gives a new meaning to saturated.

After that, we play Where Are Rose’s Clothes? because my daughter has rearranged the wardrobes. Eventually, we head to the hospital with Rose in a summer top and sparkly tights. “I don’t think I should come,” says Newish Husband. “Not yet.”

He’s right. My first husband needs to see the baby first. When my eldest was born, my stepfather rang my father to give him the news (without consulting us), which caused a great deal of hurt. We’re not making the same mistake.

The neonatal department, where my little grandson is currently under observation for the family genetic condition, carries a subdued air. We pass a darkened room with a baby in a wired-up cot and my heart starts to beat with fear. That was my granddaughter nearly two years ago, after all. But I remind myself that it’s a benign syndrome which she grew out of at seven months. Right now, I have to be strong for everyone even if I don’t feel it inside.

“Mummee, Daddee,” declares Rose as we round a corner. It’s as though she can smell them.

“Rose!” calls out my daughter from the hospital bed. There’s an auburn flash as Rose dashes past and into her mother’s arms.

“Look,” says my son-inlaw, holding a small white bundle. Rose turns. A truly beautiful smile lights up her face. “Baby George,” she trills. That’s amazing. But apparently they’ve practised. (Ditto for the female option which was a bit of a mouthful. They won’t tell me what it is in case they have another.)

They place him in her arms. “Bit risky, don’t you think?” I almost say. But I hold it back, not wanting to spoil the moment.

Eventually, we go. My son-in-law is staying in the family unit for the next few nights as this is crunch time. To my relief, Rose leaves meekly and allows me to give her supper and put her to bed. But by day four, she’s had enough, and pushes me away.

We’re all torn over what to do: my daughter wants her husband with her in case something happens. We reach a compromise – he’ll come back at night, and I’ll look after Rose in the day. In the meantime, there’s a string of Rose’s extended family trooping in and out. The ICU staff are brilliant. But it’s Newish Husband’s reaction that tugs my heartstrings. “He’s so tiny.”

I think for a minute of all the leggy girlfriends he’s had over the years. He says he wasn’t ready to settle down, but now, as I watch him cradle George, I wonder if he has regrets.

“Not at all,” he says cheerily. “Grandchildren are a brilliant substitute. You can give them back.”

Ah yes. That old one. So I decide not to tell him that I’ve offered our nighttime services during my daughter’s first week back.

‘Look,’ says my son-inlaw, holding a small white bundle. Rose turns and a truly beautiful smile lights up her face