Granny State: What if I don't love granddaughter number two as much as the first?

At last! I am finally allowed to reveal the Big Secret. I’ve been bursting to tell you for months but my daughter (who vets this column every week with her red pen) wanted to wait. ‘Just to be sure’. 

That’s right, I’m expecting again! Well, to be strictly accurate, it’s my daughter who has the bump, but I will be doing a lot of the carrying when the new grandchild arrives. 

“Are you ready to handle two under-two, Mum?” she asks me. “Of course,” I say, forcing a note of bravery into my voice. The truth is that I’m terrified. I remember all too well how manic our own family life was, when I was writing with three small children. It’s also going to be a baptism of fire for Newish Husband, who had been planning to do something called ‘the 500 drive’ round Scotland next spring, when Rose goes off to nursery.

“A new baby will be much more fun,” I assure him. “Hmmph,” he retorts. But I sense a definite softening of his eyes. “Do you think it will be a boy?”

They don’t want to know. In fact, when they asked if I wanted to go along to the latest scan, I was under firm instructions to avert my eyes. Naturally I cheated, but all I could see was a fuzzy head. “Thank you for allowing me in,” I say to the radiologist.  “You’re the fifth gran we’ve had this morning,” she tells me. “We even had a mother and daughter who were pregnant at the same time.”

Meanwhile, Rose has been firmly versed in ‘what’s going to happen’. 

“What’s in Mummy’s tummy?” she asks. “Baby!” she squeaks.  My heart sinks. Rose has been the centre of our attention since her birth, her dear little nose is surely going to be put out of joint. Which brings me to my next worry. Something so awful that I hardly dare write it down.

I love Rose so much - what if I don’t feel the same for the new one? There’s only one thing to do. Ring a much-loved aunt-figure who has been a great support since my own mother’s death. “Actually,” she says, when I tell her of my fears, “you love them all differently, rather like your own children. But there’s always something special about the first.”

Then my mobile pings. It’s a text from my first husband. “Congratulations,” it says. “You too,” I reply. But it’s all too formal, so I pick up the phone. “Lovely news isn’t it?” we both say. Not for the first time, I’m so relieved that we’re able to have these conversations. It didn’t happen with my divorced parents. 

Yet there’s an elephant in the room: the benign childhood hereditary genetic condition, which Rose had for the first few months of her life. Although, thankfully, she grew out of it by seven months, it was extremely traumatic. What if the new baby is affected?

“We’ll face it when we come to it,” say my daughter and son-in-law. They’re right. After all, just look at feisty little Rose, who is now running around and chatting non-stop. Almost too much. Having a toddler has taught me how precarious the English language can become with the wrong annunciation or letter.

My daily “Shall we go down to the beach?” suggestion is now met with an enthusiastic “bitch, bitch!” This has caused some very odd looks from passers-by on the seafront.

“You’ll be reported to social services,” says NH who finds it all very amusing. In fact he’s cheered up no end since I told him my daughter will have nine months off work, on maternity leave.  What I haven’t let on is that I’ve promised to keep going with my usual two granny days a week. 

“You’re kidding,” scoffs Mega Gran, patting her eye bags ruefully. “It’s going to be full-time from now on, kiddo. Now you’ll see what it’s really like.” 

Next week: Granny starts nesting