Grandparents: it’s in the name
On Monday me and my moko are doing our thing while her parents are out doing theirs. “Yuck!” I say, then “hooray!” when she coughs up whatever it is into my hand; cackles, claps.
I clap too both because she’s a genius and every baby deserves to be clapped for. Also, this one has put a bowl on her head and that’s a power move.
Our thing, what we’re doing on Monday, is the best thing in the world.
One of the most surprising things about becoming a grandparent is what it’s changed in me.
Now, all the patience that was so sorely missing when my own children were little is infinite; my capacity for calm astonishing. I am zen-like, earth-motherly and an absolute pain in the arse.
Initially I worried whether I could shut up with all my advice about babyraising, but that’s been no problem because nobody listens anyway. Instead, I ruthlessly and blindly defend her.
No, I tell her parents, she’s not being unreasonable, she just has big feelings and doesn’t understand.
Yes, I tell her, your parents are being unreasonable, they just have no feelings and can’t understand.
And while she’s far too little to grasp much of this mutiny, the groundwork has been laid: nanny is always, always on her side.
That was the case when recently a car screeched up to my house, barely five minutes after I knew to expect it.
“Mum”, said my boy, thrusting a pyjamaed infant into my arms, “thank you, thank god”.
“Thank you for what?” I asked, directing this not at him, but the tear-stained pea beaming up at me.
“Good luck!,” he called, speeding away. “Good luck for what?” I asked in their wake, kissing the blotchy little face, outraged at the insinuation this baby could be anything other than perfect.
“Big feelings,” I said when she slapped me.
And on Monday, her parents slapped goodbye, me and moko are doing our thing.
This morning she came with another warning: not a good luck, but a “mum, you’re buggered” then a cheery “have a lovely day”.
We are having a lovely day. We’ve watched The Wiggles, looked at umpteen books and eventually she’ll go off to bed while I watch big brother-like through her monitor.
She looks like an angel when she sleeps. She is one.
Of course, once he’s been slapped hello, that’s what I tell her father. He rolls his eyes, says I’d say that anyway, which is true.
Then, at least half-jokingly, he suggests I love this baby more than I did him, which isn’t true at all.
Really, I tell him, the most surprising thing about being a grandparent is this wonderful opportunity to have another go at being what I couldn’t back then.
It’s an opportunity to not lose my rag, put men before you, take those long depression-naps.
It’s a chance to do things differently: not send you anywhere you didn’t want to go; keep you home; stay awake just to watch you.
It’s a way to crawl into the tent we made in the lounge and sleep there with you; read you just one more book; push you for longer on the swings. It’s a way to take more walks. Very slow ones.
And this time, there will be more photographs, kinder words, longer swings at the park and never, ever, any complaints about sharing my bed.
I will be softer; wish for less; walk slower; look up more often.
I don’t love her more than I did you, silly. She’s just given me the chance to love you again.