DIARY OF A FIRSTTIME GRANDMOTHER (IT’S COMPLICATED)

This week: The perils of two wheels, a ball park and ropes

‘Guess what!” says my sonin-law. “I’ve just got a toddler seat so now Rose can ride in front.”

For a minute, I think we’re talking cars. Not so. It’s bikes.

“Is that safe?” I instantly blurt out.

“Of course it is, mum,” says my daughter crossly.

Even though my sonin-law is an expert bike rider, the thought of little Rose between him and the crossbar is rather alarming.

Still, if there’s one thing I’ve learned since becoming a hands-on granny, it’s that my view on risks – and that of the children’s – are very different. I’m still terrified of giving Rose apple slices in case she chokes. (She did this on me nearly six months ago and I had to thump her back to shoot it out.) But the kids merrily feed her all kinds of lumps and bumps. “She’s all right now she’s got more teeth,” says my daughter airily.

Yet Rose’s parents will freak out at standard parental practices from my day, such as tucking her up under a blanket at night. “That could suffocate her, mum!”

But then comes the big test. “How about a trip to the ball park?” texts megagran who juggles seven of them, aged between 11 months and eight years.

It’s been ages since we’ve had an outing, partly because her children, like mine, were enjoying their summer teaching break. “Funny how you get out of the routine, isn’t it?” says mega-gran as she attempts to put up the pushchair with one hand and grab an escapee with the other.

When we reach the ball park, it’s packed – as though every grandparent in Devon has been given instructions to take their charges out for the day. “Good luck,” says a harassed-looking woman. “It’s like a bear pit in there.”

She’s not kidding. Rose immediately starts sprinting as though she’s on speed. Straight round the corner and – whoops – narrowly missing this huge kid who surely doesn’t qualify for the under 11 age group. I manage to save her but then she’s off up a steep foam wedge thing which leads (oh no) on to a rope platform with huge gaps.

Somehow I get there in time and try to coax her down. Rose is having none of it and begins to kick my head. It’s the oversized kid who, seeing our distress, helps me bring Rose down by yanking her legs, almost dislodging them from her hips. Already I’m working out how to explain this to my daughter from the ambulance.

Amazingly, we make it to ground level only to be met with a disapproving glare from an elderly man holding a baby.

“You should keep your son under control,” he says, wagging a finger at my large rescuer. “He could have hurt that little one.” Then he’s off before I can explain.

“What’s that bump on your head?” asks Newish Husband when I return.

Later that day, there’s a knock on the door. It’s my son-in-law with a beaming Rose, proudly wearing her little pink helmet. “Want to join us?” he asks.

I explain our traumatic descent from the rope platform. “Hmm,” he says thoughtfully, before returning to the safety of Black Sabbath.

I lead the way on my 1939 bike (one of the last to be made by Royal Enfield before the war). Rose whoops with excitement and keeps yelling “Gannie!” as we race along the seafront. What fun!

When we return, NH is looking extremely pleased with himself. “I’ve drawn up an incidents chart,” he says.

“Every time Rose or you hurt yourselves, you write it down with a contemporaneous note. Then if there are any legal repercussions, you’ve got a record. Good idea, don’t you think?”

‘Even though my son-in-law is an expert bike rider, the thought of little Rose between him and the crossbar is rather alarming’