What's in a name - Part 1.

At the beginning of the year when my beautiful daughter A. told me she and her partner S. were pregnant I was delighted. For ages I'd been nagging my grown up offspring to produce before I got too decrepit to wield a nappy pin, so of course, I was elated. A baby - a brand new baby - how brilliant!!! And I was going to be a grandmother - a grandmother - me!!! (Excuse the repetition and exclamatory overkill, as you can imagine, I did feel rather excited)

Now the months have passed and A. bless her, has changed from a slim thrusting young professional to a weeble shaped not quite so thrusting young professional whose bump is due to deliver in twenty eight days - only twenty eight days!! (Sorry, I'm still excited) Oh, and I have to say bump because A & S came over all strong willed and refused to know its sex in advance. Although we mostly call it George, a name initiated by my son D. who claims it is a George shaped sort of bump.

Anyway, the thing is, A. phoned last night to give me a progress report as she does, bless her, and while she was talking ( think it was when she said how she couldn't wait to meet George, and how wonderful it would be to have a new little being in the family) I had this horrible metaphorical hammer round the back of the head moment. You know the sort, when suddenly all your smug pre-conceptions shift and doubt hoofs in and kicks everything up and you're left with a mess of what-ifs.

So, who's to say I'm going to be any good at this? What if I'm a rubbish grandmother? After all, I haven't got any experience in grandparenting - I've never even been on the receiving end of any. My mother's father was dead when I was born, just as well really, by all accounts he was a complete lunatic. And my nana is just a distant memory, quite a scary one involving stiffness, hers I think, uncomfortable chairs and breaky tea cups. There was my father's father, my grandad, but a vague recollection of a faceless brown cardigan, cordoroy trousers and big shiny brogues doesn't help much. What if I interfere too much? What if I don't interfere enough, how will I know? What if no one wants me advice anyway? Even worse, what if George doesn't like me? Muddling through as a mother is one thing, there were no choices involved, my children just had to put up with me. But its a whole different state of affairs in the grandparenting world especially in our fragmented family. George will have at least three grandmothers to choose between and the other two are far more chuckly and cuddly than me. So what if he/she likes them best.

Suddenly, the smiley yellow brick road to Grandmotherdom is littered with dandelions and garden rakes. In twenty eight days grandmotherhood will be thrust upon me - twenty eight days!!!!! (Sorry, its panic this time) I'm not ready. I need a how-to book. I need to learn to knit. I need a name that doesn't begin with a growl. Help!!!