Task 75: Look after my baby granddaughter for a weekend

This task seemed indescribably daunting when I came to compile my Sevenat70 list last August. My granddaughter Freya was just 3 months old at the time. As a first-time nanna, I last handled a new-born 40 years ago when Lucy, the youngest of my three children, made her entry into the world. That's a very long gap in continuity. I'm not going to lie, at that stage it felt like a massive deal to take responsibility for such a precious little bundle, even for the odd hour or two. 21st century parenting do's and don'ts had clearly undergone a seismic shift since my time. And as for the new-fangled state of the art baby equipment Lucy was accruing? I was in complete awe of it all. A weekend in full charge was a huge task to set myself.

Just to give some more context......Lucy is a solo mum and when she first made the brave decision to go it alone in parenthood, we agreed that if she had the massively good fortune to become pregnant through the rollercoaster ride of IVF, she would move in with me and my husband Andrew for six months following the baby's birth, to ensure that she had 24/7 companionship and support on tap in those early days. A year later, on a family trip to Paris, Lucy announced that she was 6 weeks' pregnant. The champagne flowed that night I can tell you! Over the next few months she sold her property in Edinburgh, reached agreement with her employers on working remotely and relocated down South to our house in East Sussex in time for Freya's arrival. Sadly Andrew didn't live long enough to meet his first grandchild, but we're all so grateful that he did at least know he was going to be a grandpa. 

Following Freya's birth, I was on hand to help morning, noon and night. It didn't take long for me to find out that just like riding a bike, I hadn't forgotten my soothing, nappy-changing and bath-time skills. Since Freya was being bottle-fed, I had the joy of being able to watch her guzzle her milk whilst snuggled up in my arms. I learnt to gently bounce her to sleep whilst sitting on a yoga ball in front of Celebrity Traitors. And as singing proved to be a sure-fire way of comforting her whenever she was shrieking at full blast, I could burst into a rendition of Ten Green Bottles or One Man Went to Mow as required, even in public.  

So it was that at the end of October, two months after I compiled my list of Sevenat70 tasks, Lucy bade Freya and me a fond farewell and exited the building for a whole 36 hours, leaving me to manage a relentless regime of 3 hourly feeds, tummy-time sessions and pushing the pram up and down the street like a possessed yoyo.  By then Freya was 5 months old and sleeping 11-12 hour nights, which gave me some vital recovery time, and our weekend together proved to be a fabulous bonding experience. But I can't deny I was pretty wrung out come Sunday evening. Being 70 has its limitations. Because I was so exhausted, I failed to write the planned blog on Task 75. 'Ah well, there's always another time', I thought to myself as my head hit the pillow that night.

I was quite right, there was another time. For starters, since Lucy's return to work six months ago I've become a highly cost-effective alternative to nursery two days a week. Added to which I've continued to provide one-nighter Freya care on a number of occasions, either when Lucy has had special celebrations to attend, or more recently when she's travelled up to Edinburgh overnight for office meetings. Freya care has morphed from feeding, changing and soothing to knocks and tumbles safeguarding, multiplex entertainment services (Grandpa Andrew would have been wonderful at that) and satisfying her gargantuan appetite. 

Last weekend I had my biggest test yet....to look after Freya for a full 48-hour stint whilst Lucy had a well-deserved birthday break with her best friend Emma in the Oxfordshire countryside. The perfect opportunity to finally nail Task 75.  Although what I hadn't factored into this fine plan was that my dippy doodle dog Betty would be undergoing major surgery for a cruciate ligament tear in her left back knee-joint 4 days before Freya's stayover. It quickly became clear I would have to juggle a complex post-op medication regime, the dreaded cone of shame and high levels of doggy neediness alongside the requirements of a very switched on and, ahem, determined toddler.  

Saturday morning dawned and just like 12 months previously, Lucy packed her bags and set off down the street, only this time Freya was able to wave and say 'Bye bye mumMEE'. The day passed by quickly. The sun came out (hurrah) and Uncle J and Auntie Lizzie took Freya to a local playground, where Freya insisted on inspecting every ride before hanging out with her best buddy, whose family was also paying the playground an impromptu visit. Then we repaired to my local for tea. Not a bad life really. Betty was very unimpressed at being left at home alone until Freya handed her a pink snake stuffed full of salmon paste, courtesy of Jonathan and Liz. That cheered her up no end. 

On Sunday morning Freya and I made a beeline for our local Aldi, in response to a promising tip-off from Lucy about a stash of wooden toys for sale in the middle aisle. Good call Lucy. The shelves were indeed piled high with boxes of role-play beautician kits, coffee-makers and sushi sets. Every first world whim catered for. I bought two very wholesome fruit and veg trays and a garden of flowers, which Freya spent the rest of the morning playing with. Result. 

Freya's latest obsession is looking at board books and Sunday afternoon was no exception. As normal she instructed me to 'sit dow' on the sofa whilst she selected one book from the bookcase. She clambered up onto the sofa, sat at my side, turned the pages in random order and with an authoritative air proceeded to point out cats, dogs, ducks, teddies, butterflies, fish and wheels. Then she slammed the book shut and wriggled off the sofa to go and choose another one. And Repeat. As she went to choose the eleventh book (like I say, she's quite obsessed) my phone pinged and I reached out to check a message. Freya fixed me with a stern look and shook her head vigorously. 'No' she said firmly. That was me told. It's sad to think that one day she may be as wedded to her mobile as the rest of the world.    

Everything was going swimmingly. Teatime arrived. I removed Betty's cone of shame so that she could hoover up her food more efficiently from her bowl. I gave Freya a nice little plate of chicken tikka, which she started to dissect expertly with her spoon. I was bursting with grandmotherly pride. How clever she was! Suddenly I remembered that I hadn't put the cone of shame back on Betty. I whipped round in a trice, only to witness Betty deftly removing the stitches of her operation scar with her teeth. Oh noooo.......Was that £3700 pounds' worth of surgery down the pan? Silly silly Nanna. I bathed the de-stitched scar with salt water, put the cone back around her neck and then crossed my fingers very tightly.

Monday morning dawned rather too early for my liking, at 6.05am to be exact. Freya didn't sound convinced by her decision to wake up either. So I took a leaf out of Lucy's playbook and lay down on the floor next to Freya's cot, pillow under my head for a smidgeon of comfort. I raised my arm towards the cot bars and was instantly rewarded by the feel of a little hand grasping and squeezing mine. There we both stayed in snooze mode, hand in hand, side by side, for half an hour until Freya's stomach started to remind her it was time for breakfast. 

Two hours later I dropped Freya off at her nursery. She stepped across the threshold without a backward glance. Go girl! I headed home to inspect Betty's scar for the fiftieth time. Yup, it had definitely survived the night without gaping open. Phew, crisis averted. I put the kettle on and raised a mug of tea to the successful completion of Task 75. Freya and Betty had both survived unscathed (just) and I was still firing on most of my cylinders. Indeed I found myself feeling a little lost after 48 hours of that very special small girl keeping me on my toes and filling my house with laughter and unconditional love. Lucy arrived back home looking fabulously relaxed and clutching not just one but two beautiful bunches of flowers for me. 'Glad to hear it all went so well Mum' she said, eyes glinting, 'Now that reminds me, I've got Frances's 40th birthday party in London next month......?'      

Task 76: Attend a Silver Swans ballet class

When I was 9 years old, a new dancing school started up in my village. My mother thought this was the perfect opportunity to make me more ladylike. I pictured myself leaping and twirling across the floor in a beautiful pink leotard and dainty white tutu and instantly bought into the idea. Sadly the dancewear turned out to be a very unflattering mustard-yellow shiny satin pinafore dress, worn over black jumper and tights. Not to be deterred, my local friends and I all trooped along to the village hall every Saturday morning to be initiated into the world of ballet. Our teacher, the inimitable Madame Rossell, stood by the piano, chain-smoking and barking out instructions, pointy cane in hand, the spitting image of Julie Waters' character in Billy Elliott (boys allowed in our classes though? As if....) We were taught to plie´, chasse´ and saute´ and to attempt wobbly pirouettes, every exercise accompanied by an unflappable ancient pianist (she was probably at least 40). And in floorwork we learnt a series of dance routines that we would dutifully perform several times a year at local community centres to audiences of very bored small children. I'm third from left in the photo below. I think we're attempting a can-can routine. Not a decent pointed toe between us. 

At the age of 11 I ditched ballet lessons without a backward glance and became briefly obsessed by all things pony and equestrian-related. The fickleness of youth eh.  But I've always retained a great love for ballet as a fabulous visual spectacle and incredibly skilled discipline. Indeed one of my original Sixtyat60 tasks was to attend a performance of Swan Lake (and what a stunning spectacle that was). So when I spotted several years ago that the Royal Academy of Dance had started a pilot scheme called Silver Swans, ballet classes aimed at the more, ahem, mature learner, I was very excited. As Angela Rippon, an ambassador for the project, said, 'Dance keeps you supple, it's an aerobic exercise, it gives you spatial awareness and makes you use your brain'.  Multiple health boxes ticked. What a great idea. A few months later I found out that a Silver Swans class was about to launch in my hometown of Lewes. But by then my priority in life was to provide 24/7 care for Andrew, who was becoming increasingly incapacitated by his Parkinson's dementia symptoms. So I put my Silver Swans aspirations on hold. 

Fast forward two years and there I was compiling the modest list of tasks for my 70th birthday. All of a sudden Silver Swans did a grand jete back into my consciousness. Time to give it a go I thought.  I put my name down for a taster session and kept my fingers crossed that I wouldn't be asked to wear a mustard-yellow satin pinafore dress. I visited a dance wear shop to buy my first pair of ballet shoes in 60 years. The assistant cast an expert eye over my feet. 'Hmm' she said, 'they're very slim....' (I did a little internal preen)....'apart from those two bunions' she added. Ouch, that was me put in my place.

The Silver Swans classes are held at a church and community centre called St John sub Castro, which is tucked away in a peaceful residential area of Lewes. I arrived bright and early for my taster session and waited in the cafe area, feeling rather daunted. The main hall was partitioned off, but looking upwards I could see an organ, a vaulted ceiling and stained glass windows, and I could hear a pre-schoolers' ballet class in progress. The sounds of a tinkling piano gave me a flashback to 60 years ago. The class ended and chaos briefly reigned as a tsunami of little ones and their parents exited the building. And then came the turn of the Silver Swans to take to the floor.

My fellow Swans turned out to be a super friendly group (that's Lewes for you). There were 10 of us in attendance, all different shapes and sizes, a small number wearing very elegant black ballet skirts but most in leggings and tee-shirts. They smiled encouragingly at me as we all sat around putting on our ballet shoes, and quickly started to introduce themselves. It transpired that most of them had been attending the class since its launch. They were largely of post-retirement age, and indeed several were over 80. One of the more senior attendees told me that she trained at the Royal Ballet School in her youth. She leaned towards me with a twinkle in her eye. 'I once brushed thighs with Rudolf Nureyev' she whispered. I was in awe. What a standout story. Here she is on the left, resplendent in leg warmers, still showing beautiful body alignment. 

The two mobile barres were brought out and everyone made a beeline for their places. Our teacher, Nisa was warm and welcoming. 'Just do what you can Vivien' she said. She pressed keys on her mobile and hey presto there was the piano, courtesy of Spotify, literally at her fingertips. No old biddy tickling the ivories (so last century). And no pointy cane or chain smoking either.

Oh my goodness, but what a subtly intense workout it turned out to be though. My limbs were stretched in ways that I had completely lost touch with. And my brain became bamboozled by the unrelenting requirement to copy Nisa's effortless and graceful movements. Whilst I was able to remember the five foot and arm positions from my classes in childhood, I really struggled to coordinate the different parts of my body. Angela Rippon was spot on when she said ballet makes you use your brain. The rest of the class were clearly well used to the exercises and kept up the pace with impressive sangfroid. We moved onto floorwork, and began to rehearse a routine that the class had been practicing for a few weeks. Even more flailing around on my part it has to be said. But there was a lot of laughter and camaraderie, with no one taking themselves too seriously. I loved the whole vibe and duly left the class a newly fledged Silver Swan. My mother would have been delighted, a ladylike daughter in the offing at last.

I attended classes for the next few weeks and slowly began to find my feet at the barre. The tension began to build as a public performance of our floorwork routine at a local village day drew ever closer. But then sadly life got in the way. I was struck down by a virulent stomach infection, which took me all summer and two courses of strong antibiotics to recover from, and I had to bow out of classes for the foreseeable future.

I'm glad to say I'm feeling much better and may well return to Silver Swans next Spring if my grandparenting duties allow for it. I certainly won't be tempted by horse-riding instead. For now I'll bide my time quietly in the wings and continue to feast my eyes on the professionals at work. Quick tip guys.....if Matthew Bourne's Car Man is on tour near you, get a ticket if you can. Lust, greed, betrayal and revenge - it's a sensation! 

Task 72: Do an open-air swimming session in Isle of Skye

I've never been a keen swimmer. As a seven year old I was signed up for classes with the aptly named Miss Haddock, who somehow managed to coax me through my 5 and 10 metre badges. But I never really learnt to feel the love for swimming. In my view the water was too cold, too chorinated/salty and just too, well, wet. During my teens I dreaded swimming lessons at school, what with the indignity of communal changing rooms and the disastrous effect of pool chemicals on my frizz-inclined locks. And in my early 20s the only time I'd ever venture near the sea or a pool was on holidays abroad where there were plenty of sunbeds and the temperature was at least 25 degrees. 

However it turns out opposites really do attract. I married someone who adored everything about watersports. My husband Andrew couldn't wait to introduce our three children to the joys of swimming. On family holidays his sea-monster antics in villa pools across Europe were the stuff of legend. His favourite trick was to do a massive bellyflop into the water as close as possible to wherever I was sunbathing (how did we stay married for 47 years?) And he dined out many a time on the story of being given a final warning by a lifeguard in Uckfield Leisure Centre for his over-exuberant behaviour in the pool, then aged 46. Even as his health became limited by Parkinsons Disease, he still managed to swim a fine front crawl to help his muscle tone and coordination, and was quick to broadcast to all how many lengths he'd clocked up.

Some months after Andrew exited life, my family and I were discussing our forthcoming trip to the Isle of Skye to celebrate my 70th birthday. It didn't take long for the conversation to turn to the thorny topic of finding challenges for me to tackle. The pasta-making task described in a previous post (see Task 71) had already been flagged up for action. My daughter-in-law Liz, an enthusiastic open-air swimmer, came up with a new suggestion. 'I think you should have a dip in the sea' she proposed. 'It'll be pretty warm in September' she added blithely, 'Probably at least 12 degrees'. Needless to say I shuddered in horror at the very idea and was about to decline gracefully....but then I thought of Andrew's life-affirming attitude towards water pursuits. I took a deep breath. 'I'll do it' I said, 'but only if I can have a sauna first'. A rather fine survival strategy thought up on the hoof, if I may say so. 

Lucy did her research on saunas by the sea in Skye and sourced a very promising Scandi-influenced outfit near Portree called Staffin Sea Sauna. Its website extolled the virtues of combining the healing effects of a wood-fired sauna with the rejuvenating power of cold water therapy. 'Plunge, dook, dip or swim in the clear, sheltered water just a stone's throw from the sauna's door' it enthused. Lucy duly booked an hour-long slot for Liz, herself and me. The die was cast.

And so it was that in mid-September, I checked into Staffin Sea Sauna. Uncles Michael and Jonathan repaired to a nearby cafe with baby Freya. My trusty support team, Liz and Lucy, were at my side to make sure I didn't do a runner. The weather was, er, changeable. The sky was heavy with clouds, the outside temperature was a mere 14 degrees and a stiff breeze was whipping up the waves. Not surprisingly I was feeling more than a little apprehensive. I wasn't sure that I'd go ahead and do any plunging, dooking or dipping. But the sauna? Yay, bring it on guys.

The sauna was steamy and hot with stunning views across Staffin Bay. I felt totally protected from the elements. Perfect. Well done me. I was ready to spend my entire hour luxuriating in the warmth. Until, that is, the air began to heat up big-time. All of a sudden the thought of having a dip in the sea seemed rather attractive. And a few further hot and super sweaty minutes later I couldn't wait to throw open the sauna door and make a beeline for those lovely cooling waters. Within seconds I was marching purposefully down the slippery slipway, my support team right behind me filming my every move (an unnerving experience it has to be said). 

The waves were lapping choppily around the base of the slipway as I reached the water's edge. The air was already chilling my sauna-sizzled limbs. The sea looked grey, icy and very uninviting. I reached out for Liz's hand and instantly felt her reassuring grip. With Liz at my side I stepped into the shallows and began to ease myself slowly into the 12 degree waters. Once waist-deep I found it quite difficult to catch my breath. I mean, let's face it, 12 degrees is COLD. 'Just keep breathing as slowly and deeply as you can' Liz told me. The tone of her voice was calm and soothing, and my breathing rate settled a little. I immersed my chest....then my shoulders.....and then eek......I lost my foothold on the slimy slipway and briefly disappeared under the water completely. That move was well outside my comfort zone I can tell you. But I doggy-paddled like crazy and after a few nano-seconds my feet made contact with solid ground again. Phew. Liz and I emerged from the waves together and waved our arms in the air. Hurrah! The task was complete, I was still alive and Lucy had recorded every moment of my modestly epic achievement.   

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As Liz and I walked back up the slipway, I made a big discovery. The outside air felt warm to my skin. Who knew? No shivering, chattering of teeth or sense of having undergone some trauma. I felt refreshed, exhilarated and positively alive. Apparently this sensation is called the 'post-swim glow' and I can definitely recommend it. Indeed I liked the experience so much that after another few minutes in the sauna I had another quick dip, this time with Lucy (well done for taking the plunge Lucy!) I like to think Andrew was watching our antics from some celestial pool bar and raised a glass to my success. Maybe he even did a little belly-flop too. Always in my thoughts H.

 

POSTSCRIPT
I cannot lie, I've delayed publishing this post for months. I was quite convinced that after having such a positive open-air swimming session, I'd want to repeat the process locally. I had it in mind to visit our open-air pool in Lewes, the renowned Pells Pool, during the summer and then boast in this blog about being a late-life convert to the virtues of swimming in the elements. But here we are at the tail-end of the hottest summer on record in the UK, and not once have I donned my costume. Maybe it was just a once-off task after all? But if so, at least now I have better insight into what prompts people to swim in open-air waters at all times of the year and in any weather conditions. Liz and open-air swimmers of the world - I salute you all. And never say never......