I was 70 when I became a grandmother for the first time in 2023. My son Marlon had a son of his own, and while I had never been the kind of mother who was desperate to become a grandmother, I was delighted.
But it soon became clear I was entering uncharted waters. Very little about the way they entered into pregnancy and parenthood was the route I’d taken in my hippy-punk way. They were consciously well informed. I think I made it to two NCT classes. Lina – my son’s partner – had a birth doula. I’d read the one book, The Experience of Childbirth by Sheila Kitzinger, from 1962; they’d read a raft of parenting books like Philippa Perry’s recent The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read.
Then, when it came to the birth, I wasn’t able to be around. My partner (not my son’s father) and I had been planning a weekend festival in north Wales for the past year to celebrate his 80th birthday, my 70th, and our 10-year relationship. Santi, my grandson, was born in London while we were there. Lina and Marlon were very understanding about it, but I worried that missing this huge event messed up the beginning of my role as grandmother. I felt guilty that I wasn’t on hand for Marlon as Lina’s family were.
When I finally met my grandson, I was reminded that I’m not very good with tiny babies. They are such delicate little creatures, and I was afraid of doing the wrong thing. Lina and Marlon tried to support me around the basics like nappy changing, but at times it felt to me as though they didn’t trust me. That then made me feel inadequate. So I did less than I would have liked to do.
Lina’s mum seemed to know exactly what she was doing, springing up with cooked food or nappies at the right moment. Meanwhile, I was forever making too much noise, threatening to disturb the sleeping baby, or missing a text not to ring the doorbell – Santi’s parents were constantly having to shush me.
And my ideas about child rearing were out of sync with theirs. Back in the 80s, we didn’t use white noise to get our babies to sleep, we simply plonked a Moses basket in the middle of crowded restaurants or parties and expected the baby to fit in with our lives, not the other way round. The focus now was on trying to get Santi into a routine. I thought they were reading too much, while they were horrified that I seemed to remember so little about what I used to do.
A mini-battleground was forming, which culminated in some uncomfortable attempts to explain and understand each other’s points of view.
However, the real lightbulb moment came after they went away to Colombia for a couple of months when Santi was eight months old. I was all in favour: I’m a big fan of travel as education. And they came back so much more relaxed. A new flexibility had arrived, partially brought about by long treks, including wading through rivers with Santi in a carrier on their chests. I, in turn, started to understand some of their parenting philosophy and respect it. How and why they were feeding him the food they were eating in Colombia – amazing fruits like soursop and dragon fruit, rather than supermarket jars of puree. That they were keeping him away from sugar and salt, mostly. Watching Santi eat, I remembered all the tinned spaghetti that Marlon had consumed with less pride.
I loved how Lina was only speaking Spanish to him so that he will be bilingual. And how they navigate saying yes and no. They don’t avoid saying no to their son, but they explain why they are saying no. There is negotiation involved. This is a tender, considered kind of parenting, which makes me wish that I’d been more able to be like that – particularly the understanding shown to Santi when he doesn’t want to do something. In that way, I had been less questioning about my own parents’ parenting, and carried it on.
Looking back, I began to see that some of the new ways of parenting had been benefiting me all along – I had been so touched, for example, that Lina and Marlon shared the news of their pregnancy before the “traditional” 12-week scan because they wanted the grandparents to feel part of the process. When I was pregnant, I waited, as I didn’t think my mother would have wanted to be involved.
Now I can see that whatever new forms of parenting are introduced in whatever era, it can feel not just like an invitation to reflect on your own parenting, but also unconsciously like an attack on it. No wonder there is such tension during these crucial transitional times.
And so, gradually, my hippy-punk parenting has turned into an eager-to-find-out kind of modern grandmothering: 14 months on, I find myself listening to my son and his partner a lot more than I used to. After all, they have researched and discussed what they’re doing, so it’s the least I can do.
Recently, I was immersed in all the different sounds that Santi makes and began distinguishing the layers of want and joy in them. There’s one mammammam sound that is a cry of I want that now. I found myself on the brink of declaring it a “bad” sound when my hand flew to my mouth. Be less mouthy – that’s my modern grandmother motto.
Rose Rouse is the editor and co-founder of Advantages of Age, a social enterprise challenging media stereotypes around ageing
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