Granny-to-be is told not to make a fuss

March 7, 2021, 12:19 pm , by newsdesk

Sheilagh Matheson sits and waits…. and waits…. and waits

The phone is beside my bed. The presents are wrapped. The key to my son’s house is in the inside pocket of my handbag. Everything is ready.
Everything, that is, except the first grandchild, due a week ago and reluctant to appear.

Only one thing is certain. By this time next week, our lives will have changed completely because at some time in the next few days the baby will be here, even if he  – yes, he – is dragged screaming from the womb.
Our son and daughter-in-law are 150% into ‘Don’t make a fuss.’ (DMAF) At their wedding, the only guests were both sets of parents. No best man, no bridesmaids, no cake. Two years later,  Sam announced that Madeleine was pregnant but it was a long time ahead so we mustn’t tell anyone yet and ‘Don’t make a fuss.’

It’s been easy to comply with their wishes, because Covid 19 lockdown means we hardly see anyone. We chat to Sam and Madeleine on Zoom calls, or on their doorstep when we collect or deliver their dog, or have occasional walks on the beach. We probably haven’t had the normal conversations potential parents and grandparents would expect to have. I don’t really know because I’ve never been a grandparent  before. 
Now the baby is about to appear, I find I am still locked into the DMAF mantra. I keep calm and have clamped excitement firmly in place. 
But my friends are different. DMAF doesn’t apply to them. I’ve had countless phone calls from mates all over the country, and even Australia, asking for baby news. ‘How exciting,’ they say. ‘Don’t forget to tell us. You must be thrilled.’

I usually say something along the lines of ‘Well, we’re not getting worked up because Sam and Madeleine are so low key and we fall in with their wishes. We’re kind of not allowed to be dancing in the street.’

There’s sometimes an almost palpable sense of disappointment that we are reacting in this way. My sister is particularly infuriated by our lack of euphoria. It’s as if she feels personally let down. I don’t quite get it.
“Why can’t you just be normal and admit it,” she fumes. “You’ve GOT to be excited. Why are you pretending you’re not?”
Eventually, ground down by her expectations and trying to get her off my back,  I lie “OK, I’m really excited.”
She’s triumphant. “I knew it.  I told you so. Of course you are!” 

And I will be, once the baby has arrived. The top bedroom is packed with baby stuff passed on by friends whose grandchildren have grown up a bit and don’t need a cot or a Jungle Gym. I wonder how soon we’ll have the baby for sleepovers, his first words, Saturday mornings on the sofa at 7am with CBBC.

Tick tock, tick tock. The hours are passing. There is nothing like an imminent birth to make me pounce on the phone in case it’s Sam saying Madeleine is in labour. We’ll have to jump in the car immediately – not to go to the hospital, but to collect their dog and look after him until Mum, Dad and baby are back home. 

Are we excited about having the dog? Of course we are! Thrilled!