Granny State: Baby No. 2 is imminent, and I'm nesting by proxy

It starts with the kitchen cupboards. ‘What are you two doing?’ asks Newish Husband as he catches me on a chair with Rose tugging at my ankles. Isn’t it obvious? ‘I’m going through all the out of date stuff.’

‘But you hate housework.’

True. There always seem to be more pressing matters like writing and tennis - and, of course, Rose. Besides, since I married NH, I’ve discovered that he’s far more conscientious than me. (Who else dries plates and cutlery when they’ve been though the dishwasher?!).

But now, Rose and I have a sudden inexplicable need to Sort Things Out.

‘It’s ‘nesting' by proxy,’ declares Mega Gran who has become my guru since daughter’s second pregnancy was announced. ‘Your body knows you won’t have a free second in the next 20 years so it’s trying to cram in as much as possible.’

Bang goes retirement, then.

Meanwhile, my daughter - who has always been organised - has gone into overdrive. ‘Here’s a list of where everything is,’ she announces.

I point out she isn’t due for another two months.

She looks down at her stomach which resembles a low-flying mini-Trident. ‘I’m going to be early. I just know it.’

Help! I’ve already declined a work event in Italy because it was too close to the due date. But I’m scheduled for two more in the UK, which I really need to get to.

‘Of course you must,’ declares NH briskly. ‘You can’t be on standby all the time.

But I must. And it’s not the children who think so. It’s me. The thought of not being there when my second grandchild is born is totally inconceivable. ‘Really?’ says a friend of mine. ‘I’ll be in New Zealand when mine arrives. I booked before they conceived and I’ll be darned if I cancel.’

Meanwhile, I can’t help thinking that my daughter and son-in-law are making too much of the impending birth to Rose. She’s taken to pointing to every over-size stomach in the high street and squealing ‘Baby’. (This doesn’t always go down well.)

‘By the way,’ says NH as he attempts to clear up the nesting mess which Rose and I have made. ‘Who’s having Rose while Mummy is in hospital?’

We are of course.

His voice rises with panic. ‘But it won’t be for long, will it? I hear they’re packed off home after an hour of the birth.’

This is where I’m going to have to come clean. Because of a genetic issue, my daughter will be in for at least ten days after delivery for observation. And for the first few nights, my son in law will be in the family delivery unit too.

‘Our house isn’t childproof,’ points out NH.

‘Don’t worry,’ I assure him. ‘I’m staying at their place. You can visit me in the evening. We can have date nights. It will be quite romantic.’

He doesn’t look convinced.

Meanwhile – call me fussy – but I think my daughter is doing too much. (‘Wonder who she gets that from,’ semi-jokes her husband.)

She’s already been on a spa weekend with the girls and now she still wants to go on a family mini-break to Spain which we organised ages ago. ‘It’s all right,’ she announces, waving a doctor’s letter of permission. ‘You can fly up to 37 weeks. Anyway, you’ll be there. So please stop fussing.’

All goes well. We have a lovely time until we get on the plane home, and the chief stewardess demands to see the said letter. ‘Hmmm,’ she frowns observing my petite daughter’s enormous stomach. ‘It doesn’t say you’re not expecting twins.’

‘That’s because the scan showed one,’ we chorus back.

There are mutterings of 32 weeks (the limit for multiple birth take-offs). Phone calls are made. Other passengers get restless.

‘Don’t say it,’ hisses my daughter.

‘What?’

‘I told you so.’

Well, I did.

Next week: Can I keep the baby shower a surprise?