Dear Senan,

Grandchildren, like buses, seem to come along all together, and you’re the third grandchild I have welcomed in as many years. Like little Russian dolls, each new arrival revealing another layer of love, and continuing our family’s story.

You slipped into the world on the seventh day of the seventh month. Tipping the scales at seven pounds, seven ounces and measuring, what else, but forty-nine centimetres, or, as we like to think of it, seven times seven!

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A thoroughly modern baby, you also have seven grandparents, some through blood, others stepping in with a love that transcends traditional ties.

Within a few hours of your arrival, I was perched on the side of your mum’s hospital bed. My arms were itching to hold you, as your dad cradled you in his big hands, like you were made of something far more precious than gold. While your mum looked on, loving you both, but wanting you back in her own arms, feeling lost without the baby she had carried so carefully for nine months.

Dressed in the tiniest, whitest babygro that, despite its size, was still too big for you, I counted your 10 tiny fingers and toes as I held you. I’d been worried that I might have forgotten how to hold a small baby, but I needn’t have; my body remembered and knew exactly what to do, molding itself to your shape as you sighed and nestled into me.

You felt so much smaller than your dad did, so much more fragile. I was in my early twenties when he was born, and I knew everything then. I’m older now and realise how little I know, and how scary the world can be.

Despite your recent arrival, you have already changed us all. My son is now a father, my daughter now an aunt, and notwithstanding the uncertain times we’re living through, I feel lighter, more hopeful. With your light in the world, everything looks that little bit brighter.

I’m older now and realise how little I know, and how scary the world can be

Your cousins live in Australia, so you’re the first grandchild I have held – the first I have been able to talk to without the barrier of a small screen between us, and the first whose sweet baby smell I can inhale deep into my lungs, and my heart.

Your dad’s old teddies have been taken down from the attic to be washed. Their worn faces looking at me damply from inside the washing machine, squished up against the porthole as they prepare to be loved by the next generation.

I’ve polished the fridge, preparing it for your pictures, and made space on the bookcase for the framed photographs to follow.

I’m looking forward to school concerts and Christmas plays too. Wondering if you’ll wear a tea-towel around your head and stand beside a manger, holding a cardboard box inscribed ‘Myrrh’, like your dad did – and your granddad before him.

But most of all, I can’t wait to make you laugh.

As a grandparent, I don’t need to reprimand you or make you eat fruit, or care if you wear shoes or not. I won’t worry about what time you go to bed or if your homework is done. My job is to blow raspberries on your tummy, and chase you around the garden on all fours pretending to bite your bottom. Or hide behind my hands and pretend-scare you with my peek-a-boo, as I tell you stories about your dad when he was little.

You’re too small yet to know how lucky you are. Unlike many children born into less fortunate circumstances, you’re already blessed with everything you could possibly need.

Parents who love, and can look after you; a secure roof over your head; a full belly and a warm bed to sleep in, in this safe, peaceful little corner of this big world.

“With all that luck,” my friend said, as I shared the first of many baby photographs with her, and recounted the tale of Senan’s auspicious birth, “you should play the lottery.”

I smiled, knowing there was no need. I had already won the jackpot.

Lucky seven. Lucky Senan.

Granny x