On Trying To Be A Modern Grandmother

I became a grandmother last year at the age of 70. I have one son so am very grateful that it happened. Santi has just turned one and it’s been quite a year.

A year of joy – the exquisite feeling as an exhausted moan-cry changes to the gentle slump of sleep as Santi rests against my chest in his carrier – and reflections.

Santi’s mum, Lina – my son Marlon’s partner – asked me recently about my own grandparents and whether I knew them. I didn’t know my Tooting-based ones who died before I was born but my Yorkshire-based ones (my mother’s parents) lived three miles away and we saw a lot of them. They were a boon to our childhood in terms of practically supporting my mum – she had three children – and making us feel loved.

They were classic old-style grandparents. They always looked ‘old’ to me. They were both tall which is strange because we were all small. Harry, my grandfather, wore the classic flat cap, was bald and lived in his allotment. He was a direct, no-nonsense kind of Yorkshire man. Jenny, my grandmother, wore long skirts and looked old-fashioned, she was always baking. They didn’t have much money. Harry worked in various engineering factories up the road.  They had a two up and two down just outside the market town of Otley where my mum had lived most of her life. They never had a car and walked four miles to a farm to have Sunday roast then four miles back when they were younger. They saved up all year in a Christmas club to give us treasured presents. I love that they lavished us with so many gifts (and they were small but significant) despite being poor.

They were very important to us as a family. They held us with their quiet devotion. They lived down East Busk Lane – that lane provided us with so much inspiration as children. We went down to the stream with our grandfather and collected the red clay from the bed, then fashioned pots out of it. These clay pots became part of the mythology of our childhood. As well as the names of wild flowers – the yellow toadflax that popped up in crowds beside the railway track or the palest pink milk maids in the boggy meadows. As did the divine smell of baking bread as we entered their home – the loaves were in tins in the ovens beside the open fire. And the chrysanthemums that grandpa grew, magnificent plant creatures from another planet and he knew all the names, of course.

Saturdays were the zenith of our child week. Treats galore. All home-made. Meat loaf, egg mayonnaise on bridge rolls (remember those), and cakes ago go from marble to fruit. Then the games. Housie Housie which was Bingo. Lots of shouting and laughing. Grandpa watching the wrestling on TV – they had a television before us so this was a highlight – with tag wrestling and all those old legendary wrestlers like Mick McManus, Les Kellet and triumphantly, Giant Haystacks. This was the 1960s and there was Dixon of Dock Green, Laramie and the Voice too. Heaven. And a little bit disturbing watching the drip on the end of my grandpa’s nose tremble precariously.

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By the time, I had my one son, it was 1986 and I lived just off Portobello Road with my now ex-partner, Mario, in a housing co-op that had short life properties from Kensington Housing Trust. My mother was 60 - my father had died two years before – and was still residing in the Yorkshire village where I grew up. Mainly, our grandparent relationship relied on me driving up there and staying with her. My parenting style was very different to hers. There were a few incidents – like when my two year old son was learning not to wear a nappy resulted in a poo accident at the children’s museum we were visiting – and me receiving an admonishing letter afterwards. There was a spiky silence between us after that - for some time.

And we did see her in holiday time. And Xmases. But there wasn’t the hands-on grandparenting that I had had. Now I feel for her because no doubt she would have loved it if we’d been round the corner, and she would then have been able to grandparent in the way that her parents had. The distance made that impossible for her. She never had my son for any time on her own even when he was older. She really missed out.

Fast forward to 2023 and the birth of Santi. I am in a Living Apart Relationship – my partner resides in N Wales and I’m in Harlesden, London – and one of the reasons that I’ve been so adamant about staying here (there are other ones) is that I want to be near to my son and now my grandchild.

The different waves of grandparenting styles are flowing back and forth. My mother’s experience made me want to be able to do more, to be there more. And I am able to because we all live in London. They are in Bermondsey, I jump on a tube and am there in an hour. And his other grandparents, Lina’s parents, are even closer. Plus he has a great grandmother in London too who also came to his first birthday party.

What is modern grandparenting? What do we have to offer? I knew that I wanted to offer a day a week childcare at least. And his other grandparents offer weekend childcare. According to Junior magazine, 60 percent of the childcare in the UK is done by grandparents. I was amazed by that.

According to an Australian study which followed 10,000 families over four years – ‘simple intergenerational-friendly activities like reading or shopping together also boost child development. The study revealed that children aged from three months to 19 months had higher learning scores if they were cared for by grandparents as well as their parents.’ Junior magazine. Which is all great but I want him to feel utterly loved and supported the most.

I relish Santi Mondays. The other week, I was taking him to Southwark Park in the pushchair when I happened upon Bermondsey Carnival. Santi already loves music. His parents took him to Colombia – where Lina was born and lived until she was six – for two months earlier this year and he was regularly swaying to the sounds of Cumbia. And as soon as he heard the Wild Violets – funk and jazz – his hand shot in the air and he started moving.

Modern grandparenting also means having respect for different childcare methods. And being open to learning some new ones too. Hands up, there were a few difficult moments in the first few months. Tiny babies are not my forte. I felt a little unsure. His new parents seemed a little over-preoccupied but they were new parents. There was a lot of Ssh mum as though I was eternally being too loud.

I felt the division between their X Generation and my Baby Boomer one acutely. We just left our babies in the middle of noisy restaurants and expected them to sleep. We made them fit in with our routines rather than the other way round. I was a little worried.

But gradually I realised what a great job they are doing together. That they really do parenting together. They are so much more of a team that we ever were. They discuss their different approaches and reach agreements. My son has stepped up into fatherhood in a very hands-on way which makes me feel proud.

They might time activities like sleep in a more disciplined way than we did, but they also already negotiate with Santi. Lina speaks only in Spanish to him which is so brilliant. I hope he does grow up to be bi-lingual, it’s such a great skill to have. They explain to him why he should be gentle or why he can’t do something. This seems to be the heart of gentle parenting. And he has the freedom of their flat and regularly pulls everything out in his explorations. And they let him go almost naked to eat so that he can fully enjoy his food!

And they are still keeping him away from sugar. Which is such a good idea. There is so much more information about nutrition now. And they make it simple by giving him what they’re eating often but without the seasoning.  It so wonderful to witness him loving fritters, or mango, or oats. I confess Marlon ate a lot of baby food at this stage and it certainly had sugar in it, and then spaghetti hoops.

I’m interested in their philosophy of parenting and how it goes. We certainly didn’t have all the answers. I was more liberal, much more, than my parents. They are a mixture of flexible and thinking about Santi’s needs.

Another mistake I found myself making he other day was to call some of the sounds – am observing them and what they mean – the bad ones! I immediately put my hand to my mouth in shame. Grandma – yes, I’m grandma rather than granny – had judged his sounds. They didn’t say anything. But Lina had already explained that babies just have needs, they aren’t trying to get one over on us. Of course.

This modern grandma aged 71 is all ears and not half as mouthy as she could be. I’m learning that being a modern grandma is about listening and watching…