Grandma saves the day – and the planet while she’s at it ...

Lola and Liberty see Alex’s mum as a mobile party entertainer. So I was blown away when she offered to come and help with some childcare for a whole week. It was a bit of an emergency. Rosanna, the nanny, decided to take a holiday at the last minute to Manchester – just as it was going into lockdown.

I thought to myself, “Who goes in holiday to Manchester?” I can’t imagine what she will do there? Visit the Arndale Centre? It’s all a little strange, but at least I’m covered for the week she’s away. I’m surprised though when I open the fridge and see an unexpectedly glamorous deli bag from Partridges in Chelsea. She’s not the type to be buying loose leaf tea or bespoke hampers.

In fact, all she eats is Bombay Bad Boy pot noodles – and that’s why Liberty shouts “noodles” at me constantly but I keep saying no because of E numbers.

I’m suspicious about this bag; it may as well have been lipstick on a partner’s white shirt. What’s going on here? She lives with me all week in north Kensington and then goes home to Hackney to see her mum at weekends.

There’s a giant Tobelerone in the plastic bag and it’s shouting out to me “she’s being unfaithful with someone else’s children”.

Is she really going for a much-needed rest – or is she doing a trial week at a new job in Sloane Square? I start to imagine stalking her and confronting her if I spot her in SW7. I have to pull myself together; I’m getting anxious over nothing. I’m now concerned about her wellbeing. I keep texting her links to breaking news stories about the Covid-19 crisis in Manchester in case she hasn’t seen the news – but she seems oblivious to any danger. My deepest fear is she will be unable to return as she will be quarantined – or worse still, give us the virus.

As she left I handed her a bottle of vitamin D spray– as a weapon against Covid.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary, except I realise she has left her keys on the bed. But she reassured me she would be back next week.

We pick up Alex’s mum up from Paddington station. The girls rush to meet her as they spot her among the crowd. They grab her legs chanting “Grandma, grandma” much to the amusement of passers-by, until she nearly loses her balance.

It feels like she is saving the day– and the planet while she’s at it. One morning, I find her rummaging in my rubbish bin, fishing out items that have been missed for the recycling  – a yoghurt pot, a small jar and a piece of cardboard.

Has she turned into the recycling police?

“If you can’t spare five seconds to save the planet for your children and rinse out a jar, you can always stick it in the dishwasher. Shame on you!” she scolds as she makes her morning brew.

Mothers-in-law are notorious for being difficult but she’s certainly isn’t your average one. Since Alex died we have become closer – of course, we talk about him endlessly. He’s Alexander to her and Alex to rest of us.

But as we walk the dog together, she encourages me to find a father for my children. We stop to have a chat to a total stranger who also has a dog. “He looks nice,” she says, as if he might be suitable.

“The girls do have a dad,” I say. “He’s just not here.”

But she’s right, really. It’s a very oestrogen-heavy childcare system – with no father, no father-in-law, and my dad isolating; the only male in the house is Muggles.

But even though Alex is no longer around, he is still the common denominator. She reminds me of him: the good, the bad and the ugly. She always brings a little memento:  a picture he drew at four-years-old, a photo of him, even a lock of his blond baby hair.

I’ve even given his mum keys to my flat to keep – it’s not exactly convenient when I lose them as she miles away, but it’s a gesture. I’m lucky to have her, that’s the truth. Now she’s grandma to Lola and Liberty she spends the entire time photographing and videoing them like a Japanese tourist.

Ok she tells me that I’m manic and need to relax or that I talk to loudly and I might have ADHD. There are no teaspoons, so she brings her own. She has to hide chocolate from me, and there are no hand towels.

She will only eat off the stars or hearts plates, and refuses to eat off plates with a flower pattern. But most of the time we live in harmony. She sings to Muggles You are my sunshine  or Hush Little Baby and gives him some healing while stroking his head and holding his paw. It’s great that she loves the dog –  nobody else has the patience to put up with him.

But we are a lethal combo as neither of us can make decisions. She spends a lot of time wandering around the kitchen in her pink dressing gown saying: “I don’t know – you decide.”

That’s when grandma terrifies Lola’s four-year-old friend on an unscheduled play date in the local park.  “Harry!” yells Lola at the top of her voice.  He’s her best mate.

They want to play Rapunzel, and Alex’s mum offers to be the queen.  Instead, Harry allocates her the role of the wicked witch.  She immediately goes into true Method acting mode, shaping her hands into claws and speaking in a high-pitched cackly voice as she threatens “I’m coming to get you!” Harry is petrified.  “Whoa – that’s way too scary,” he yells as he runs to hide behind his nanny.

After a week, grandma is desperate to get home.  It’s not because she doesn’t love the kids, but after being dragged to the floor during endless rounds of ring-a-ring o’ roses, squatting uncomfortably on the floor building Lego castles and doing ballet with Lola, at the age of 78, her back’s protesting.

“Ok, See you soon!” I say. The kids give her a big hug and we drive away from the station. I always feel a pang of sadness at that point as another part of Alex has gone.

I wait for Rosanna to get back that evening on Sunday. She’s been with me for four years and never been unreliable. It gets to 8.30pm. Where is she? I try to phone her and it’s engaged constantly.

Will she turn up for Monday morning? It’s Lola’s first ever day at school – a big moment in my calander – surely she not going to leave me high and dry? Or is she?