My grandson has been coming to our house once a week ever since my daughter finally wrenched him off the boob, already a year old, huge and bald. I bought him a Keith Haring playmat, fed him bananas and tried not to turn the telly on too much.
Over the past three years, he has turned into a walking, talking boy who has already had his adenoids out and can mostly be relied on not to shit his pants. I say “mostly” with my fingers crossed. Until now, he’s been at nursery three times a week, running around with a gang of other small boys who call themselves “the Crazy Crew” (seriously) and occasionally have to have “carpet time” and “sit quietly” until they can play nicely.
Tuesday is my Nana Day. I am not available for other work on Tuesdays, unless someone is offering pots of money, which is increasingly rare these days – but let’s not get bitter.
Pop-Pop and I have done all the baby and toddler stuff: the petting zoos and library sing-songs, the meandering walks to the ducks, the parks and playgrounds. I have squeezed my flabby size-16 body down slides not designed for fat nanas and eaten all the leftover fish fingers, which is possibly why those slides are getting increasingly tight. I used to judge my weight by the zip of my Levi’s; now it’s by whether I need rescuing from a play tunnel I should never have entered in the first place.
Sometimes I think he is my best friend, which is ridiculous because he can’t drive and hasn’t got any money. He is also a terrible con artist, as all children are. He wheedles and wraps me around his little finger. He can’t eat eggs and only really likes pasta and baked beans. He is now too heavy to carry and likes to go upstairs on the bus, while we leave Pop-Pop on the bottom deck.
In September, having turned four at the end of July, he starts school. He will be in the reception class of a south London primary school, along with an eye-watering number of other four-year-olds. He will have to wear a uniform, even though he doesn’t like buttons, and the thought of him dressed like so many other little boys kind of breaks my heart.
I would like another year, please. Just another 12 months of mucking around on Tuesdays, of being able to go places without queuing or waiting for a turn on that thing. There is a wonderful freedom to the pre-school, non-nursery days. There is no schedule, no real rules. He can wear his pink T-shirt and just his pants if he likes. We can play Evil Chipmunk until Nana is off her head with boredom.
A brief explanation: this involves Pop-Pop “falling asleep” while guarding his nuts – mostly Brazils – as we, the evil chipmunks, creep up and steal them, over and over again, until Nana is begging for some respite.
I feel I have left it too late to prepare him for this transition. His numbers are still random and he couldn’t care less about spelling his name. I try to demonstrate using my left hand, as he does, but he glazes over and reaches for the Play-Doh to make dinosaur eggs.
Like all small children, he has his specialist subject. At the moment, we are very into animals that lay eggs – oviparous animals – which means making nests. For an urban boy, he is very Laurie Lee, though without the menagerie, because the only thing he possibly isn’t allergic to is a goldfish.
He is also a terrible card cheat and an abysmal loser, refusing to believe that his much younger girl pal is a faster runner than he is, despite all evidence to the contrary. He likes mini Party Rings and my Stonehenge-heavy banana bread. He is my lamb, my chop, and I’m terrified that school is going to change things – change him.
How long will it take before the other children realise he’s never bothered kicking a ball in his life and has more kangaroos than cars in his collection? Will he want to fit in, talk tractors and have his hair cut into a boy’s cut? Will I even recognise him among all the other Aertex-topped boy children?
From September onwards, my nana duties will change. I will pick him up from school twice a week, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and join the ranks of the school-gate nanas. There are loads of us now: an army conscripted by parental working hours and finances.
Most of us are career mums who missed out on this whole chunk of our own children’s childhoods and are horrified by how quickly this bonus one is slipping through our gnarly old fingers. He is the only child of my only child, the apple of the apple of my eye.
I think four is too young to start school. Ideally, I’d like to keep him with me on Tuesdays until he has a beard. When I tell Pop-Pop that I don’t think he’s ready for reception, he mutters: “No, it’s you who’s not ready.” And he’s right.
This week I have been…
The old man and I have recently returned from La Rochelle, which is in the La Rochelle region of France (sorry). I would very much recommend it for an adult city break. It’s a harbour city with a beach, a lovely natural history museum and a superior aquarium with jellyfish-like lightbulbs.
For those with a taste for the sea, it’s very strong on oysters and moules. It’s also a cycling city, on the proviso that you have the balance to ride a bike – sadly, the old man does not. We had five nights of air conditioning during the height of the UK’s heatwave. Bliss. One night, I actually slept under the duvet!
These days, I devour all my leisure reading via Audible. I can listen directly through my new-fangled hearing aids, which is extraordinary.
Favourite late-summer listens include by Patrick Radden Keefe and by Kathryn Stockett, who had a massive hit with . This is better.
I’m glad I got through Lena Dunham’s , but I found it quite upsetting. If there’s anyone who still hasn’t read this year’s Women’s Prize winner, by Virginia Evans, do it. I promise it’s worthy of all the fuss.
I’d also recommend by Patmeena Sabit. Trust me, I have excellent book tastebuds.
On Netflix, a miniseries adaptation of Harlan Coben’s novel . It’s the usual preposterous stuff from Coben. I don’t know any of the actors and the story is complete hokum, but we are gripped, I tell you. Gripped.
Another big favourite is , starring Noah Wyle as Dr Robby, whose midlife crisis is dragging on a bit now but remains very popular chez Eclair!
The next chunk of can’t come quickly enough. And, for those with access to BritBox, my daughter Phoebe Eclair-Powell’s new six-part adaptation of Agatha Christie’s begins in September. It stars Antonia Thomas and Josh Dylan, with a glorious side offering of Imelda Staunton.
I think the only things keeping us on terrestrial TV right now are and The Great British Sewing Bee.
Jenny Eclair currently co-hosts the podcasts Older and Wider and Taskmaster: The People’s Podcast.