What do you think to the idea of a good slug of Baileys on your cornflakes as a mood-lifting start to the day? Not good? I only ask because I'm feeling a bit bereft at the moment, following the departure of middle daughter plus grandchildren after a longish stay. They've gone back home which,
in their case, is nearly the other side of the sodding world and it's left me contemplating the whole issue of grandparenthood.
You see, I never wanted to be a grandmother. I don't mean I hated the idea, not at all, just that I never craved it in the way that some women I've met obviously do. I have been unwaveringly convinced I could remain happy and fulfilled with or without them. I certainly craved my own children, oh yes indeed! Mother Nature gave me a sharp kick, the old maternal instinct sprang into life and I yearned for dimpled babes to dandle on my knee. However, as I lay, a-labouring-oh, wailing in anguish and bemoaning what was a blatantly obvious design fault in the female anatomy, I was certainly not thinking, gleefully, 'oh goody, this means that one day I can be a grandma.' Absolutely not. Apart from anything else, I was rather taken up with the business of the moment, as my children sprang from my loins. Except, of course, they don't spring do they? Springing is the last thing they do, and that's the problem.
I don't see why evolution couldn't have decreed that we laid eggs, which seems so much more sensible. And these days you wouldn't even have to stay at home and do all that sitting on them to keep them warm. There'd be handy patent egg warmers, designed to suit every decor, that would do the job for you whilst you went about your daily business, untramelled by worries of egg temperatures. You'd just check for signs of cracking every now and again, and then be ready with a damp flannel when it hatched. Or we could have had teeny, tiny little babies like the ones kangaroos have, so small that the mother barely notices it's arrived until it climbs into her pouch. Not that I'm keen on the pouch thing. I don't know how fastidious your average kangaroo is but it must get pretty messy in there, and cleaning it out could be a nightmare. There again, somebody would probably have come up with a nifty little attachment you could just pop on the nozzle of your Hoover. But this is all by-the-way. At no time, during the production of my own children, did it cross my mind to worry about whether or not they might, in time, go down the parenthood path themselves. It was of no particular importance to me, but I have met a great many people for whom the matter looms large and I could never quite get to grips with their obsessional views on the subject.
Once you have grown-up children you will meet certain people, mostly women it has to be said, who will grill you as to the state of your offspring's fecundity as if that is the most important thing about them. My first mother-in-law was one such person, in that grandmotherhood and the prompt production of babies meant a lot to her, but I wish to state, here and now, that I was deeply fond of her. She was a lovely woman in every way but, when I was but a few months into the marriage, and showing no signs of being up the duff, her disappointment in us was palpable. We, of course, had no plans for starting a family so early in our union, thinking it wiser to get some furniture before a family, and the poor woman would have to wait for three, long years before her wish was granted, by which time I'm sure she was convinced that we must be doing it wrong. She herself was inordinately proud of the fact that she had dropped her first sprog nine months to the day after her nuptials, bringing unbounded joy to one and all, and I fear she judged me to be a selfish little wretch with dubious, modern ways for failing to do likewise.
Now that my own children have reached maturity I keep finding myself in conversation with women who regard the whole issue of whether or not said children have children of their own yet and, if not, why not, of considerable interest to them. I, of course, not being thick, am fully aware that these supposedly interested enquiries are but a ruse designed to enable them to hold forth, at tedious length, about how many grandchildren they can claim to their name. I fear I'm an unrewarding audience for these women as I honestly cannot see why I should then congratulate them for something that really has very little to do with them. The fact that their kids have either been impregnated or, alternatively, have been doing a spot of impregnating does not incline me to shower their mothers with praise and approbation. Not at all. Indeed, knowing some of their children, as I do, my strongest feeling is one of pity for the resulting babes. It's the Grans with a competitive edge that irritate me the most, reeling off numbers in a 'beat that' tone of voice, which has me gagging to point out that, as the planet is already over populated, all that procreative prowess is nothing to be proud of, and maybe they should be out buying their kids some condoms instead.
I happen to have daughters and I regard their wombs, either full or empty, as entirely their own business. Yet these women of whom I speak seem to think it's fine to look at me pityingly and shake their heads in a sorrowful manner when I tell them that, thus far, two daughters remain, very happily, childless. And if that continues to be the case then I, for one, will not be losing any sleep over it. Now, I don't want you getting the wrong idea about me. I'm as inordinately proud a mother as the next bore, but I'm more likely to fix you with a gimlet eye and tell you how fabulously well my children are doing in their chosen careers, or how much I admire their bravery and their fascination with the wider world as one them sets off to trek across the mountains of China on a horse, or I'll boast about anothers compassion as she walks the cobbles of Mexico City giving food to street children. I'll do all the showy-off stuff in buckets and, for good measure, I'll probably throw in a few anecdotes about my grandkids too, as it just so happens they are remarkably bright and beautiful and funny and utterly adorable, but what I won't do is try and take credit for any of it. And I won't assume you warrant sympathy if you have no children of your own, grand or otherwise.
I have always held the theory that having children is not compulsary. Sadly, I fear that many (not all) couples do adhere to the view that, if you have been together for a while, got the house, car, stuff, then the next move must be to have the family, without giving any deep or serious thought to whether or not this is really what they want. Or if, perhaps, they are merely fulfilling the wishes of their respective families to acquire those pictures that can be proudly handed round at coffee mornings. Having been a foster-carer at one point in my life I am here to tell you that an awful lot of people out there should never, ever have become parents. Not everybody is cut out for it. Not everybody wants it. No pressure should ever be applied.
I can honestly say that I've never regretted having my children. Not for one moment. But I can also appreciate the benefits of the childless life and I suppose, in a way, I've been reminded of that recently. It was great having the house full again, as all our daughters wanted to spend as much time as possible with each other and the babies. It was all the best possible fun. And I loved having the company of the five year old as we picked beans together at the bottom of the garden, or made cakes. She reminded me of how a sink full of bubbles can be fun rather than just washing up and she could make me laugh till I cried. I really didn't mind being woken by a two year old with a smile like the sun, despite the fact that the hour was ungodly. I liked going into his room as he slept to kiss those cheeks that only small children can do so well. I melted when he cuddled up to me on the sofa and gripped two of my fingers in his sticky little hand. It was a joy to spend so much time with them and they are fabulous children. But they're my daughter's achievement, not mine.
And now they're gone again, and I miss them, as I think I mentioned at the beginning of this piece, yet I can't deny the pleasure I take in having a few scallops in garlic butter with a nice green salad for my lunch rather than fish fingers and beans. I suppose I've grown selfish. On balance, I probably prefer an hour or two in an art gallery, followed by a gin and tonic and a gossip with a good mate than an afternoon on a bench in a playground. Does that make me a bad person? I don't think so. I've done my stint, from choice, and revelled in the rewards. Just don't expect to find me at the coffee morning, handing round the photographs (and there are lots of them) whilst other women pretend an interest. That's not my thing. I promise not to show you mine if you don't show me yours.
