Helping Granny

Grandson likes to arrange his cars in long lines, inching them forward one by one past his Duplo traffic lights. Granddaughter likes to crawl towards his cars like a small but determined walrus, seize a car, chew it and then purloin his lights.

He knows he's not supposed to push her away. So now he says, "Let's play on the stairs," and opens the door. She trundles enthusiastically after him. He climbs a few stairs. She follows and so do I because she's better at going up than going down and I don't want her to fall. He then trots downstairs again, runs into the sitting room and shuts the door, leaving his little sister happily climbing the stairs with me. He's not daft, that lad.

The other day he was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking some milk. I went to the sink for something and when I turned round, he had raised the plastic lift-up flap on the milk carton and poured a little experimental splosh on to the table.  "I got the top off all by myself," he said with satisfaction. He and I looked at the little pool of milk. And then, clearly practising for a career as a spin doctor, he added cheerfully, "I'm helping Granny."

Darling little N, you'll never know how much you're helping Granny just by being you.