DIARY OF A FIRSTTIME GRANDMOTHER (IT’S COMPLICATED)

This week: Could George’s sniffle be something more sinister?

It started when I caught the mother of all colds. “I don’t think I should come round,” I say to my daughter.

“But I need you,” she pleads. I see her point. Two children under two is a challenge, especially now my son-in-law’s paternity leave has ended.

“I’m worried I might infect little George,” I say.

“He’ll be fine,” my daughter declares airily. “The health visitor says I’ll have immunity because of breastfeeding. Can you get here in seven minutes? I need to put Rose down for her nap and I can’t leave George on his own.”

I finally arrive in 20 minutes, despite pedalling like fury to make up for the work email I had to send first. By then, Rose is overtired and refuses to go down. I’m in the doghouse – especially when I “compensate” by sneaking her chocolate buttons.

“Didn’t you read that piece about grandparents harming grandchildren by giving them too many sweets?” says the boss. “Can you change George’s nappy instead?”

Help! It’s here that I have to admit to something. Remember my pre-birth concerns that I might not be able to love number two as much as I adore Rose? Well, of course I do, but in a different way – as my aunt had warned. It’s hard to put a finger on exactly how or why, but there you go. Maybe it’s because he’s a boy. I can’t pretend to put lipstick on him (Rose gets really excited by this!). And I won’t be able to plait his hair. (Well, maybe I can attempt both, but not yet.)

“Mum!” rebukes my daughter as she returns to find me mid-nappy while trying not to breathe germs over the subject. “You put it down, not up.”

“Really?” I try to think back to her brothers: in my day, I’m sure it was the custom to place the male appendage “up”. So I shoot off a quick Whatsapp to the Granny Mafia group.

Answers fly back, but it’s a hung parliament. I decide to play safe and follow my daughter’s instructions.

Three days later, George gets the sniffles. I am consumed with guilt. “It’s not your fault,” says my daughter. “Everyone’s got a cold at the moment.” But my little grandson’s chest is rattly. We take him to the surgery and are told not to worry. Ditto on the second visit. On the same day, just before closing time, my daughter’s maternal instinct tells her to take him again. Just in case.

“Mum,” says a little voice on my mobile. “They want me to take him to hospital to get him checked.”

My son-in-law is putting Rose to bed, so I go. A&E is packed with rugby players, but we get seen by the triage nurse after half an hour. By then, George is sleepy and even rattlier. He has a temperature and his heart rate is fast. We are sent, to our horror, to the resuscitation area for blood tests. Suddenly, he goes a mottled colour. Each one of his tiny veins stands out.

“I don’t like this,” says my daughter. He’s attached to a monitor that screams every few seconds. Mouth dry, I say my prayers. The mottling fades slightly.

“We may need to do a lumbar puncture,” says the paediatrician. No one says the “m” word, but suddenly I realise the mottling might be a meningitis rash. She wants to wait until the blood tests come back first. The clock ticks, 10.15pm, 11.35pm… Texts are flying back and forth from my desperately worried son-in-law, who can’t leave Rose because of her separation anxiety during George’s birth.

Midnight. Two blood tests have come back negative. But the third needs doing again. An angel nurse stays late to squeeze blood out of George’s heel. Afterwards, I cradle him in my arms while my tear-streaked daughter goes to the loo. My heart is filled with so much love for him that I think it might break.

Then we wait.

‘We take him to the surgery and are told not to worry … my daughter’s maternal instinct tells her to take him again. Just in case’