My first grandchild is six months’ old. Despite the fact that this new life is of overwhelming interest to me, I won’t show you a photo of him because I realise that’s very dull. I didn’t understand that a few months ago and thought my friends were just under the weather when I thrust my IPhone into their faces.
“Look!” I exclaimed and, to be fair, they did. Then they tried to change the subject.
I was wondering how this was all going to turn out. The first time round the block, when my son was born almost thirty four years ago, his mother and I were so petrified of the responsibility we had no time to take photos. Now, I find myself lying in bed casually speculating about how I’ll teach little Jesse the front crawl. It’s unlikely I’ll be given carte blanche on this — when both my kids were still tiny, I took them on a caravan holiday to Britanny and hired a pedalo which I managed to capsize. I told the kids this was a new game and that the person who held on to the upside-down boat for the longest in the turbulent sea would get a prize. When we finally got back to shore, I said:
“That was fun, wasn’t it? Probably no actual need to tell your mother about it, though.”
My daughter immediately rang her mother and excitedly told her about the brilliant game Dad had invented and how we were all in the sea for absolutely ages.
So it probably won’t be just me and the kid on the beach next summer. Jesse’s mum, my daughter, is pretty strict even without her knowledge of my parenting skills, so I have to watch my step. When I’m out in Twickenham with them, I point at other babies in the park.
“Look at that one!” I say, obviously too loudly. “It’s got such a fat head.”
“Shhh,” she frowns at me.
What I’d really like to do is chuck Jesse up in the air and then pretend not to catch him until the last second, causing him to chortle merrily at my antics. I don’t do that. Instead, I hide my own fat head behind my hands then reveal it with a wide-eyed grin which, when she does it, makes him chortle merrily. When I do it, he starts crying.
I did spot him the other day though, eyeing me with what was obviously intelligent curiosity when he thought I wasn’t staring slavishly at him. It’s remarkable how you can tell your own grandson has a higher-that-average IQ.
I’ve learned to keep all advice to myself. When my son was a baby, we had supper with my parents at their house and during the meal, the baby alarm in his bedroom started broadcasting his pathetic cries. His mum started to get up to go and comfort him. My mother said, with a metallic glint in her eye:
“Why not just turn that wretched speaker off?”
I have started secretly singing Bob Dylan songs to Jesse. That didn’t seem to do my kids much harm. When my son was two, he said one day:
“Dad, I’ve got a new Bob Dylan song to sing you.”
“Great! Go ahead.”
He looked at me pityingly and then started to chant:
“Bob Dylan, Bob Dylan, Bob Dylan…”
It’s OK, Jesse hasn’t split on me yet about the singing, partly because he can’t talk yet. I know he likes it though. When he’s supposed to be going to sleep he keeps his eyes open for as long as he can so that he can still hear my lovely voice intoning Desolation Row. Then my daughter turns up.
“Why is he still awake?” she demands.
I’m looking forward to taking him to the GTech stadium to watch Brentford with his Dad, my son-in-law. Last season, I ended up next to the Leeds away fans one Saturday and could almost taste the furious spittle on their enraged faces. He’ll enjoy that, but I may just have to remind him there’s no need to tell his mother.