Granda Kev
SOMETIMES we make promises when keeping them hurts us more than it does our grandkids.
I’m all for treats as rewards for good behaviour, whatever sensitive modern parenting gurus might think.
Which is how I found myself trapped over a peach frozen yoghurt in a local Turkish cafe. The pledge to Little L was one for him and another for sister Canny C if he stayed in bed all night.
He’s not yet four but old enough to appreciate the deal and was truly excited.
Home isn’t a workhouse and no Miss Trunchbull enforces silence so he was allowed to shout out to mam and dad if he woke and they’d tuck him back into the world of slumber. But no wandering. Little L went to bed chattering excitedly about peach frozen yoghurt with granda. So did I, looking forward to sipping a coffee.
Best laid plans and all that. I reckon my disappointment was greater than his on receiving a message that he’d been out of his bed so yoghurt was off the menu.
Laying down the law with grandkids then failing to enforce it would be undermining. And I’d foolishly left myself zero wriggle room.
Little L reacted with a maturity beyond my years, heroically accepting he’d have to try again. At his age my toys would’ve been out of the pram.
Not that we had frozen yoghurt on the Tyneside of my childhood. The rare Ski pot was as good as it got. Night two I was willing him to win to avoid feeling like Mr Bumble denying Oliver Twist. Conditions on promises are hard work for us grandies. Maybe they’ll be dropped one day, something-for-nothing an easier deal.
Church bells rang in my head on news Little L stayed in his bed all night and was demanding his reward.
My heart almost broke when his mam said he’d asked if I would be proud of him. You bet I was and am. Always.
Off we trooped. His sister, not yet two, takes her eyes off food, enabling Little L to slyly spoon half of hers on top of his own.
He won’t get away with that for much longer, I’d wager. Pride in our grandkids comes in all shapes and sizes. Including small scoops in tiny bowls.