Granny State: Am I neglecting my own daughter?
“Mum,” says my daughter plaintively, “I feel like I don’t have time with you any more.”
What? I see her every day.
“Yes, but it’s always when you’re coming round to help out with Rose. We don’t have ‘us’ time together.”
I realise with a start that she is right. On Wednesdays and Thursdays, we exchange hurried hugs on the doorstep as she races off to work. Sometimes, if she’s on late duty, I don’t see her return if my son-in-law is home first. During the rest of the week, I swoop in to take Rose on a dog/pram jog and then back for evening bathtime plus story.
How I love my Rose time. But in the throes of granny passion, I seem to have neglected my own daughter. I was exactly her age when my mother died of ovarian cancer, so I know that even a grown-up child still needs at least one parent.
“Right,” I say brightly. “Let’s go out for tea tomorrow.”
“Actually,’ says my daughter. “Can we have a morning coffee instead. 9am OK? I can’t do it any later because it’s playgroup at 10 and then Rose has her nap.”
But that’s when I write. My mind goes back to the days when I juggled my full-time journalism career with three small children – often at their expense. Was I making the same mistake all over again?
So off we go and have a lovely time. We swap stories and giggle while Rose joins in with her own delighted prattle. “Thank you so much,” texts my daughter afterwards. Her simple words made me feel even guiltier. How many mothers are lucky enough to live round the corner as we do? Yet I still need to write. So instead, I neglect Newish Husband, squirreling myself away in my study.
“Careful,” says Three Times Divorced Gran, “or you’ll spread yourself too thin.”
Nonsense. But I feel a niggle of unease. The next day is a Rose day. All goes well until I bring her back to our place for lunch. NH is out so (thankfully) he isn’t there to see her storming her indoor tricycle up and down the newly-waxed hall floor. Then she moves onto the teaspoon drawer (now reachable) and amuses herself by chucking out the contents, as I peel potatoes.
“What a mess!” declares NH on returning early. Is he serious? This is child’s play. “And what’s that smell?”
Unfortunately, I’ve left Rose’s changing bag at my daughter and son-in-law’s place. So off we scoot, with half-cooked potatoes in the bottom of the pram (I’ll finish them off at her place when I’ve cleaned her up).
Except that the occupant falls asleep en route so I can’t change her until she wakes. By the time we’re sorted, we’re 20 minutes late for ‘Dance ‘n Prance’, where everyone gives us a wide berth. It’s not until we get back that I discover I still have a dollop of you-know-what smeared on the back of my jeans.
I confess all to the Granny Mafia during our weekly debriefing over peppermint tea and cake. It’s become the norm for each of us to come clean with a transgression. “Before I had Rufus, I was so terrified about taking him anywhere that I practised with an empty pram,” volunteers Newish Gran.
“I’ve found a great way to get them to sleep,” admits Alternative Gran. “You just stroke their earlobes and whisper ‘It’s all right, granny’s here.’ Maybe it’s got something to do with our meridian lines.”
Perhaps I ought to practise this on NH, I think. Might make up for all those working and granny-duty hours.
NEXT WEEK: Rose stays overnight
