ninme

I wonder if the timing of this was entirely coincidental:

The Times - Tears before bedtime - and that’s just grandad
What happened when an ageing editor was left alone with two children - and what was learnt, by Magnus Linklater

[A]fter a fortnight’s immersion course in full-on grandparenting, I can confidently proclaim that the reverse is true. The only way to survive is to impose Victorian standards of behaviour, play the tyrant and insist on the kind of manners that even Mrs Beeton might have found excessive. Oddly, children will accept a regime required by grandparents that would elicit tears and tantrums if attempted by their parents.

It is possible, of course, that, at the age of 3 and 7, our grandsons were simply indulging two ancient and clearly demented characters who were nevertheless the source of sweet and unhealthy treats banned at home. The three-year-old cottoned on with alarming speed to the idea that if, instead of saying “I need chocolate”, he said: “Please may I have some chocolate?” he got it that much quicker. The routine of sitting down to meals, finishing food and observing rudimentary standards of tidiness was easier because it was clearly temporary, an enjoyable interlude, before real life kicked in again.

It is possible, too, that both sides get something out of showing up the parents. As someone said once: “Grandchildren and grandparents get along so well because they have a common enemy.” Grandparents, consciously or otherwise, show their offspring that they can handle their children better; grandchildren are telling their parents: “You see, I can behave perfectly well, it’s just with you I choose not to.”…

In the end, the one commodity that grandparents have, and modern parents do not, is time - time to indulge, entertain and focus on the children to an extent that is simply unavailable in most busy households. Just how full-time this can be was brought home to me when I was left in charge alone, fielding telephone calls, sending e-mails and arranging meetings while attempting to fulfil the equally demanding schedule of football on the lawn, building and knocking over towers of wooden bricks, playing an obscure card game in which the rules changed periodically, but in which there was only going to be one winner, and attending to non-stop calls of nature.

Once I found myself forcibly holding the door shut as I tried to hold a telephone conversation with an important contact who asked at one stage if I was in any trouble. The quick answer was yes, but nothing life-threatening at this stage.

At that moment I had a glimpse of the average mother’s daily life, and quailed.