Like Riding a Bike

Not a real bike obviously, although I do have a very smart red and yellow one. Its supposed to be a mountain bike (a misnomer if ever I heard one) complete with a full range of gizmos - chunky wheels, rubber springy thingies, unfeasible amount of gears. Trouble is, all the extras just make it heavy and given the unrelentingly perpendicular landscape around here (imagine trying to pedal a two wheeled Hummer up a hill) it spends most of its time looking smart in my shed - but I digress.

What I'm long-windedly trying to say is once you've done it - baby handling that is - you never forget, perhaps I should rephrase that - baby handling sounds like some sort of horse singing or dog whistling service. Suffice it to say I have definitely located my inner Granny - or more correctly my inner Nana F, that's the name I've settled on by the way - the others opted for Nanny, Grandad. Grandma and Pops.

Only problem is, my inner Nana F seems to be a bit of a worrywart. Her instincts are to wrap Baby S, aka George, in layers of blankets, hats, gloves and preferably a sterile bubble before leaving the house and its only August. God knows where she came from because I don't recall wanting to boil my own kids alive, or be such a boring fusspot. Maybe the granny equivalent of maternal feeling (graternal?) has got an old lady gene built in - yuk! what a horrible thought.

When I accompanied Daughter A. and soon-to-be-son-in-law S. on George's, oops, Baby S's, inaugural outing into the real world, it was all I could do to keep my inner Nana F from chucking herself into the road to stop inconsiderate lorries belching exhaust fumes into George's precious new lungs. I will have to have strict words with myself, don't want some crazy alter-nana turning me into an over graternal anxious old bore. Fortunately, A and S, bless them, seem unfazed by my sudden multiple personality disorder and are still happy to have me around.

Have to say, Baby S. looked very cute in her smart new pram, and so she should. What seems like ages ago, when she was still a George shaped bump, we all went on a pram research trawl through the stores. And I am here to tell you, it was not the simple business I'd expected that's for sure.

You can't just walk into a shop and say I'll have that nice red one please, or least you can't in the mother and baby dept. of John Lewis, oh no. Firstly, we had to collect a number ( bit like the deli counter in Waitrose) and get assigned a pram consultant, then wait while duly assigned pram consultant dealt with the fifty odd, largely pregnant customers in front of us. Oh yes, and they're not simply prams anymore, they're travel systems fully equipped with bits and pieces that morph into other bits and pieces suitable for every travel occasion from plane to train to car and barely need pushing.

However, by the time our consultant was free, the only thing daughter A was interested in was locating a chair for herself and bump George to collapse on, and even my curiosity, having become the unwitting beneficiary of more pramly information than any right minded Granny should be privy to, had waned somewhat. Fortunately, nearly-son-in-law S, took over and as usual was brilliant. He asked all the right questions - was it light enough, small enough, safe enough, tough enough - did it have a roll bar (think the last one was some sort of boy thing!!) and took several systems round the display stands for test drives. After a sit, Daughter A. rallied and joined in with some questions, finally fixing on a pretty blue one. I wisely kept my one question to myself - bloody hell, how much?

Consequently, in addition to becoming a granny spotter, a baby checker (have to look at them all just to check they're not as pretty as Baby S.) I have become quite the pram aficionado and can discriminate between a Bugaboo, and a Maxi Cosi with a mere glance. And if you need a quick run through the respective merits of a Quinney as opposed to a Maclaren (the finger chopper offer) look no further.

Mind you, Baby S would look beautiful even if A & S pushed her around in a wheelbarrow so who cares. God, I love being a Granny

Who's the GRANNY?

Guess what? George has arrived. Two weeks early, which caught everyone on the hop, not least daughter A., bless her, who measures punctuality by degrees of lateness and considers arriving anywhere early a waste of time. But two weeks!!! (repetition and gratuitous exclamation marks unavoidable at this point) Fourteen whole days!!! (Now I'm going to gush) And who cares because George, toes and fingers present and correct in number, is the most perfect, beautiful, blue eyed little baby a granny-grandma-nanny-gransy person could wish for.

Oh God!! I just said little baby didn't I? Why do people do that, why did I do it? It's not like they come in a vast range of sizes is it? Although I did read about a nineteen pounder born in Japan last week - nineteen pounds!!! Can you imagine? Still, as a rule littleness is the biggest thing about a baby so it hardly needs saying. I'll try not to do it again.

That sorted, George is absolutely the cutest (still feel oddly compelled to sneak in a 'little' here) baby I have seen since my children were born. Weighing in (sounds like a wrestler) at 6lbs 80z (which actually is quite little) sporting a full head of hair and wearing a determined expression that says "here I am, what now?" she is (apart from a pair of feet clearly inherited from her dad, nearly son-in-law S) the spitting image of her beautiful mum, daughter A, bless her. And the instant I saw her she crooked her tiny (silent 'little') fingers and curled them into my heart in ways I can't begin to describe without sounding completely bonkers.

Oh yes - did I not mention? George is also a (little) girl. I've got a (little) grand-daughter. And although she'll always be a bit of a George to me, her name is S (obviously not the same as new daddy nearly son-in-law S) and she has turned me into the gooyest, verging-on-talking-to-complete-strangers-ga-ga-blethering proudest new granny-nanny-grandma person in the world.

GIN grannies or Grannies I'm Not

Eighteen days to go - less than three weeks. EEk!

Daughter A, bless her, phoned with an update. The mid-wife says baby's head is now two fifths engaged. Makes George sound as if he/she is occupied elsewhere and far to busy to be born. Hope he/she doesn't arrive early - hope he/she doesn't arrive late. What I mean to say is I hope he/she arrives on time. (Whoops, babbling a bit) C'mon George, get your little head together - no more lolling about, you really need to start concentrating.

I'm beginning to suspect I'm a tad over-nit-picky about the type of granny I want to be. So far my grannies-worth-emulating list has only got two grannies on it - Quad-Bike Granny and Vanessa Redgrave (she's superb at everything so she must be a faultless granny and I just want to be her anyway). Whereas, my grannies-I'd-rather-eat-my-kneecaps-than-be-remotely-like list, is growing all the time.

I definitely can't be a WI granny, sterling bunch though the Women's Institute might be. For a start I'd have to join their ranks and I've never been much of a joiner (as in groups obviously - not carpentry, I'm not bad with wood) And for an end, when I was researching how-to granny books on Amazon, I had a quick look at WI Practical Know-Hows for Grannies - 100 tips and quotes for the modern granny. Just what I needed you'd think. Wrong! The title of the first chapter was BAKING NEVER FAILS TO SATISFY. Why is it that grannying is so dependent on flaming cooking? I was too intimidated to read any further.

And I certainly don't want to be an Alternative granny - as in hemp wearing, recycled tyre sandaled, spin your own yak woollies, alternative. There's a lot of that goes on around here, think they're attracted by the wacky myths and druidic drivel generated by the standing stones littered about - not as many as there once was since, historically, they get nicked by farmers for gateposts - the stones not grannies.

Anyway, AG's are not going on my list, they're probably very worthy bunch, but sometimes they smell, and all that back to basics stuff seems like hard work to me. I don't want to spend any part of my hols in a yurt, (they smell too - damp dog) I'm not wearing hemp (not sure what it is but bet it's itchy) Can't go organic ( don't fancy slugs in my lettuce). And although, I'm all for recycling my rubbish (as in placing it in correct colour bin) I draw the line at wearing it, weaving handbags with it or making funky (questionable) garden features out of it.

Oh God, what a negative rant. Sounds like I've got issues! I don't want to be a negative ranting issue ridden granny either!!

I've just discovered a good granny website, no, not a good granny website, its a website called good granny.com. And guess who it's written by - Jolly old Jane Firmly Witherwhatsit, mother of hairy Hugh and advocator of polished ivory domino usage. Maybe her website is a bit more up to date than her book - How to be a Modern Grandmother!! So I'm off to have a peruse.

To Knit or not to Knit

Three weeks left!! Only twenty one days!! I'm experiencing this gnawing urge to take up knitting - or maybe its gnawing guilt. I'm good at guilt - I'm not so good at knitting. Actually, there's a lot of the typical granny stuff I'm not much good at - cooking, baking, crocheting, cleaning, ironing, pickling onions, darning - does anyone darn anymore?

Having said that, I do sew. Don't really enjoy it but I can tackle most things. When Daughter A. first told me the news about George, I decided to make him/her an activity blanket. The concept was simple, a colourful baby-sized soft padded blanky with lots of baby-interesting bits sewn in, loads of baby-gripping bits that popped off and a whole bunch of ingeniously placed baby-manageable buttons, bows, poppers, pockets and whatnots that would present baby sized cerebral and physical challenges and be an essential aid to his/her development.

A tall order for one nearly-to-be-granny woman and her sewing machine you might think - nah, not a bit of it. After three months in construction (had a slight hiatus when B., my large hearted, tiny brained, fading yellow labrador, popped off several of the baby-gripping bits and ate them) a small fortune in materials, a bit of unpicking (I hate bloody unpicking) and a lot of swearing The Activity Blanket was complete.

True, its not quite as compact as I'd planned (size of a small double duvet) so not much use in a crib. And, true, my cunning idea to have it folding in on itself in order to fit into a handy integral little bag when not in use went slightly awry (made a large drawstring sack instead). And I might have got a bit carried away with the cerebral, physical, challengy bits (its a tad more Kryptonesque than Playmobile) But apart from that, The Activity Blanket is a truly glorious and singularly unique thing to behold. Daughter A. and soon-to-be son-in-law S. loved it, bless them. And even if the slight design flaw prevents George from retrieving all of the rattles, soft toys and doodahs until he/she is in his.her teens, at least he'll/she'll know that Granny (no-name) made it for him/her.

On another granny related issue, this morning, when I took dog B. (fading, thick etc. lab.) for a walk, and I was indulging in my new spectator sport (granny spotting, very compulsive, bit worrying) I spotted a brilliant new granny type. She was quite old, grey hair etc, in charge of a little herd of grandchildren, and a dog, (dog B growled at it, grumpy old thicko) but she was riding one of those quad bike disabled scooter type affairs. The thing is, she had her grandson on her lap, he looked about six or seven, and he was driving. How wicked is that? She must have had nerves of steel. (Secretly, I still feel apprehensive when my children take the wheel, and they passed their driving tests years ago) He drove her over all the lumpy bits in the rec, up and over a couple of small steps then down the grassy bank by the pavillion. They were only going about half a mile an hour so they were quite safe. Don't think I could ever be that trusting. Good on you Quad Bike Granny, you're definitely getting a slot on my list of Grannies Worth Emulating.

Famous Grannies

There aren't any, famous grannies that is - at least none of note according to my research. True, the research wasn't exactly in depth - I googled 'grannies' and google asked me if I meant 'trannies' then threw up a bunch of porn sites and a list of ageing celebs who've apparently got toyboys young enough to be their grandsons. Good on them I say.

Adding famous to the search gave me 'famous five grannies' which I cautiously opened with one eye closed just in case it was another porn site. Happily, it turned out to be a regular group of walking grannies who'd just traversed the coast of England for charity - good on them too. Although walking round a whole country is a step too far for me!

Then I got totally sidetracked by Hell's Grannies, that brilliant Monty Python sketch about hoody-type grannies terrorizing the neighbourhood - hysterically funny (I watched it on you tube) but not the least bit helpful in the how-to granny area.

The Queen is a famous granny I suppose, and her mum. But since their fame came through Queening and Queen Mumming, don't think they really count. Besides, not sure royal grannying tips, even if I could get hold of any, would have much relevance for me and George. And Margaret Thatcher's another. Apparently, when one of her twins produced, she greeted the news with "we are a grandmother". Daft old Tory trout, she's definitely not getting on my admirable-grannies-worthy-of-emulating list.

Grannies in literature aren't much better. Terry Pratchett's Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax are the best (I love Terry Pratchett) his characters are unreal, but they're also unreal I mean as in fantastical, eldritch, alternative-universe-balanced-by-four-elephants-on-the-back-of-a-giant-tortoise, unreal. (If you're not familiar with TP's work skip this paragraph) so they're not ideal as role models plus the fact they're witches.

The general coverage of the state of grannyhood, was, I'd almost decided, rubbish. So, imagine my surprise when I turned on my computer this morning and AOL, instead of flashing up 'Lose ten stone every day for a week with our exciting pumpkin diet' or 'How stuffed broccoli pillows can save your marriage' offered up 'Ten Lessons from Grandma' (nah nah, seems like my ubiquitous Uug boot and man-bag theory isn't so nuts after all) I was almost excited.

Alas, most of Grandma AOL's lessons weren't worth reading let alone learning. Neither a borrower or a lender be was one gem. Love they neighbour was another. Sounds more like the ten commandments than granny advice. The most puerile of all was a little homily about the joys of family holidays - nothing wrong with that I hear you say. No? Granny AOL claims half the joy is in the getting there - the eye spy on the way, the nature spotting, the uplifting singing. Yes, right, absolutely?

Apart from the fact the daughter A. bless her, isn't planning to take me on hols any time soon, and rightly so, and I've got the choral abilities of a drain, Granny AOL obviously hasn't been on many long car journey with kids, or at least not normal ones. As small people mine were mostly brilliant but filled with holiday excitement and strapped into a car they turned into obnoxious little megalomaniacs "I haven't got enough room, I want a sandwich. I want a drink. I want a wee. I've left my bucket and spade in the hall." And of course the obligatory "Are we there yet?" at five minute intervals. But that was their job. I wouldn't have dared to spoil all that by suggesting any sort of jolly sing-song. I hope George turns out just like his/her lovely mum.

Grumpy Granny Syndrome

I'm not making it up, Grumpy Granny Syndrome (GGS) exists, I've seen it in action, at least I've seen it in action in my neck of the woods, or more specifically in the Asda in my neck of the woods, (not my supermarket of preference but convenient sometimes and incredibly cheap). My friend J. says I shouldn't shop in Asda because they use slave labour, not sure what for, and their profits bolster American world domination, not sure about that either. Although, I'm beginning to suspect they do dodgy stuff to their salad - preserve it in cryogenic suspension or radiate it or something, because my super-fresh on-the-vine cherry berry tomatoes always seem to go rotten the day after I've bought them.

Anyway back to GGS and Asda. I doubt I would have picked up on it if it wasn't for my own state of impending Grannyhood. Over the last few months I have somehow morphed into an expert Granny spotter. You know the way it is - you decide to buy a car that nobody else has got or ever heard of then suddenly they're everywhere and as common as Uug boots and man-bags and you're tripping over them endlessly. Maybe that isn't quite the way - but you get my drift.

So, there I was in Asda, reluctantly (that's for J's sake) buying my soon to be rotten tomatoes, when it came to my attention ( I sound like a policeman) as I was proceeding in a yoghurtly direction past organic veg. and pre-packed salads, that the place was full of trolley pushing kid laden grannies. Honestly - school holidays innit!!!! And I have to say, a more grouchy bunch of old grannies would be hard to picture.

All I can say is this - after George arrives, and daughter A., bless her, pays me the ineffable compliment of asking for my help at holiday time, I promise I won't behave in such an ungrannylerly fashion. Amongst other things, I definitely won't whack him/her if he/she chooses to squidge the fresh loaf I've just bought - bread is squidgy stuff, what can you expect? I won't yell if he/she throws all the toys out of the pram - that's what they're in there for. I won't blow smoke all over him/her the minute I'm outside (I've given up, five months now) I have to admit to a smug smile at this point. And I certainly won't embarrass him/her if he/she gets caught short in frozen foods and leaves a puddle on the floor. In fact, I think I'd probably keep clear of supermarkets if I had George in tow, I've always found them to be a bit short on entertainment value in kid world and best avoided where possible.

Oh dear, what a rant!

Perhaps I should swap supermarkets and try to find a better class of granny to spot. Twenty three days to go (lost a day or miscalculated somewhere) and I still need all the tips I can get. Maybe I'll give the books another go!!!

What's in a name - Part II

Twenty seven days to go and I'm not panicking quite so much now. I've just been on Amazon and believe it or not there are thousands of How to Granny books out there, Canny Granny, Not all Grannies Knit, The Good Granny Companion, to name but three. Problem is, having browsed a few (with that clever facility Amazon provides to look at a selection of pages before purchase) it has become quite clear that what I definitely don't need is some pompous old Granny know-it-all telling me that I should keep my button box topped up, or my darning mushroom handy. In the sudden onslaught of Oh-God-I'm-going-to-be-a-useless-Granny panic, I'd forgotten how much I loathe all that smug-aren't-we-wonderful self-help drivel.

Canny Granny On How to be a the Favorite Grandparent, recommends I buy 'thoughtful gifts that resonate'. So I'll be off to the thoughtful resonating gift shop first thing in the morning.

And Jane Firmly-Withoutwitsatall (changed the name in the interests of anonymity) tells me in her Good Granny Guide, - how to be a modern Grandmother, that beautiful well made equipment makes a game more pleasurable. Modern, my elbow! Jaunty Jane, incidentally mother of Hugh Firmly-Withoutwitsatall, the TV chef who transmits his eco self sustaining recycled programme via bat radar from his cottage in the river and only uses organic ingredients like bottled badger balls and beetroot compost, is in my opinion, quite clearly off her head. Not least because the beautiful equipment she is talking about is a set hand-crafted ivory dominoes in their own beautifully carved box.

Now where did I put those antique gold embossed ones I had hanging around the place? Think Jane ought to join Hugh down at the cottage for a bit of a break and a nice rat rissole supper.

Yet another Granny book tells me there are 5 distinct types of Grandparents. See, all this Granny data is being collected that I knew nothing about and it must be true because SAGA said so: (I must find out what SAGA stands for - Sad Ancient Grannies Assoc. perhaps?)

1. Racy Role Models 37% = 5 million

These are younger( younger than who?) have a diverse social life, flirt, dance & like the occasional tipple. (Dancing, flirting, drunken old people too cringe-making for words, even if they are younger than other old people.)

2. Adventure Seekers 19.5% = 2.5 million

These are more affluent (more affluent than who?) hectic travellers, predominantly female, charity workers & still with time for grandchildren. Smart and stylish. (I'm not more affluent than anybody, could do smart and stylish but fall down on the charity bit)

3. Traditionalists 31.2% = 4 million

Often older (all together now - older than who?) Less active, limited range of pastimes, contribute less to childcare. (This lot is a bit of a depressing bunch, don't want to be one of these)

4. Hearts of Gold 6.3% = 0.75 million

Kind, friendly, lots of time for grandchildren. Sociable but not likely to seek out new experiences. (Not too keen on this lot either. Never really seen myself as a Hearts of Gold type of person, even at my best.)

5. Quiet Reminiscers 6% = 0.75 million

Smallest group - mainly men. Not active, don't spend much time with grandchildren. Don't socialise much, not many hobbies. (Grumpy old blokes - typical.)

I've almost lost the will to live after such depressing research. What a load of tripe. But for the sake of George my unborn grandchild, and my beautiful daughter A., bless her, I shall press on to the end (nearly down to twenty six days now). The perfect role model is out there somewhere, and the perfect name!!!

PS. If any of my offspring, family or friends, work out the identity of this blogger and think it might be fun to buy me a book that has Granny anywhere in the title, just don't. Because I won't be in the least amused and I shall throw it straight into the bin. XX