I’d love to be a naughty granny, but my children won’t let me

So I belong to a generation of grandparents killing our children’s young with too much kindness and over-protectiveness, do I? That at least is the verdict of a review by public health experts, who warned yesterday of the danger posed by we well-meaning old things.

I hadn’t thought this was what I was doing when I have my six-year-old granddaughter and threeyear-old grandson for tea or playtime, and they find the cookie jar and whisk out a broken chunk before I put the tin out of reach with a sigh. Or they insist on making cupcakes “to take to Mummy and Daddy” but which somehow they sample rather too eagerly first.

I had thought that being indulgent, and perhaps a little subversive of parental wishes, was rather the point of being a grandparent.

I have, however, been issued a terrifyingly strict “request” by son and daughter-in-law not to give the children sweets or sugary foods when we are out and about or they visit. If they are with us late afternoon, I must stand like old Mother Hubbard in front of fridge and bread bin in case they gobble up a chunk of deliciously indigestible cheese, a bowl of raisins, hunks of buttered bread, or consume my lodger’s container of sweet fruit drink, sending blood sugar levels soaring as well as ruining their appetites for supper.

The trouble is it spoils the fun. I long to be the kind of gran my husband’s mum was, and see the kids eyes light up as they spot the sweetie jar full of favourite confectionary. Or to buy them a lollipop, a chocolate figure, or an ice cream when we are on an outing.

But at home I am too easily spotted. My muchloved son and daughter-inlaw share a house with my husband and I, even though it is divided by solid doors and strict rules of engagement. It means the joy of an easy flow for my granddaughter and grandson to come up and see us and I don’t want to endanger that.

This just means I need to be clever. When they appear up the stairs after school, instead of putting out plates laden with sugary goodies or kiddie snacks, I wrap and hide packets of dried mango slices, containers of buttered oat cakes, bunches of grapes, and then give the grandchildren clues to find them. Somehow when they discover their loot with a great whoop of triumph, they seem content to eat what is there.

The relationship between grandparent and grandchild can be an unusual one, full of its own kind of secrets, and perhaps that is why it finds itself open to criticism.

Sometimes at the end of afternoon playtime, for example, fearing they spend their time with us as couch potatoes, my son appears to collect them. He mutters darkly about entertaining with a screen, not realising that Peppa Pig has bought us all just 10 quiet minutes after hours of wild games.

We grandparents are also guilty, apparently, of being over-protective when parents come on all strict. Sure, I sometimes stick up for the little guys during a ticking off. Or plead their case when Mum or Dad inflict what seems to me an unreasonable penalty for some act of disobedience. But by far most often I’m sure I keep out of what is their business.

So in stepping out of line in the ways I do, am I damaging my grandchildren? I have yet to be convinced. If I’m a renegade grandmother, then it’s my style and I’m sticking to it.