Why I Don’t Want to Leave My Children with Their Grandmothers I’m 31 years old, a full-time mum raising two daughters aged 3 and 1 by choice—and here’s why. When I had my first child, I naively assumed the grandmothers would naturally step in to help. In reality, they were more of a hindrance than a help, and I found myself managing on my own. Here’s how it went for me: After my daughter’s birth, and especially once we got home, I felt completely helpless—not knowing where to even start with a newborn. What seems basic to me now, after two kids, felt overwhelming back then. Naturally, there weren’t any “instructions” on caring for a baby written in my head! I expected the older generation to have all the answers—how to change, bathe, feed, trim nails, and care for a baby. But it quickly became clear their advice conflicted—even about bath time! Over time, I mastered nappies and more, and I’m grateful to both my mum and mother-in-law. They still make me smile with their very “British granny” advice: Granny 1 (my mum-in-law): – Recite a prayer over the bath water and only let the child drink that! – Six months later, I bought a water filter. – Only use grey soap on the baby, and apply it to any rash. – Your children are poorly because you’re raising them “wrong” (though never clear why!). – If your baby cries, take them to a local “healer”—that’ll fix it. Granny 2 (my mum): – Babies crying? Ignore it—it’ll pass. – Fever? Give paracetamol, problem solved. – You buy them far too many toys, you know. – I can babysit Saturdays at 1pm, but only until 4—then I’m off to the cinema! – Sweets and salty snacks for the baby? Why not, start at 6 months. Let them try anything if they reach for it. I love my mum but I do now question a lot about my own upbringing! There were times I was left with my gran and subsisted on pasta all day, while at home it was always fatty foods. My coughs were sometimes ignored until I ended up ill…and now I understand my tummy troubles as an adult! The bottom line is: I get on with our grannies, but I can’t imagine leaving my kids with them for more than a few hours. Closely supervised? Sure. But am I overprotective? Maybe—but I’m just not comfortable with the alternative!

Author Walton MerrittReading 4 minViews 1

Let me tell you why I simply cant bring myself to leave my kids with their grandmothers.

Im 31 and have two daughtersone is three, the other just turned one. I dont have a paid job; Im a full-time mum by choice, Id like to emphasise! When my first was born, Inaively, it turns outassumed the grannies would swoop in with all their wisdom, eager to help. Truth be told, they were more of an encumbrance than a lifesaver. The whole it takes a village thing? In our case, the village had lost the map.

Let me paint you a picture.

Post-birth, and especially after we left hospital, I felt completely at sea. I hadnt a clue where to start with this tiny, squawking creature. Now, with two kids under my belt, it all seems blindingly obviousbut three years ago, the mere idea of bathing a newborn sent ripples of marital debate round the house. Looking back, the instruction manual for raising a baby had managed to skip both my head and my hands. Shocking, really.

Now, for reasons no one can explain, I expected the older generationmy mum and my mother-in-lawto be fountains of practical knowledge. Changing nappies, giving baths, clipping baby nails, treating coughs it all seemed like something theyd just intuitively know. Oh, what an optimist I was! It turns out, even amongst themselves, they couldnt agree on how to bathe a baby, let alone anything else.

Needless to say, I became something of a nappy-swapping ninja over time, and a dab hand at the rest. I genuinely love and appreciate both my mum and my mother-in-law, but looking back now, I cant help but laugh at their unique approaches.

Granny Number One (my mother-in-law):

Insisted we should bless the babys bath water and only let her drink the holy stuff, as she calls it.
Six months in, I bought a Brita filter and we never spoke of it again.
Only bought that ghastly oatmeal soap. Claimed it was magic for babies and recommended it as a cure for, well, everything except male-pattern baldness.
Youre raising these children improperlyno wonder they keep getting ill! (Reason, unknown.)
Suggested I take the baby to a local healer lady when she cried too much. Apparently, all the posh mums do it.

Granny Number Two (my mum):

Crying? Oh, theyll get over it. Bit of a temperature? Give them some Calpol and send them out to play.
Declares that children nowadays are spoilt rotten with toys. In my day we had a potato and it was enough.
Visits precisely at 1pm on Saturdays, but must be out the door by 4pm sharp for cinema matinees. Predictable as train delays.
You can give a baby anything after six monthsif shes begging for a chip, let her have one.
I adore my mum, but I cant help wondering how we survived childhood!

Lets just say my nutritional memories arent exactly glowing. As a child, I was dropped at my nans for days at a time and lived on pasta and custard creams. At home, everything was fried within an inch of its life. Apparently, persistent coughs were best ignoreduntil, surprise, I got whooping cough and my pancreas filed for early retirement. Now I know why my livers and innards revolted by age twelve.

So, heres my final word: I love both grannies to bits, but leaving my precious little darlings with either of them for days on end? Not likely. Supervised? Absolutely. Its not paranoia, darling. Its just motherly preservation instinctsbolstered, perhaps, by vivid childhood memories and a healthy respect for English cuisine.

Why Should It Matter Who Cared for Grandma? Legally, That Flat Should Be Mine! – My Mum Argues Bitterly With Me My own mum is threatening to take me to court. Why? Because Grandma’s flat didn’t go to her—or even to me—but to my daughter. My mum thinks it’s a grave injustice. She insists Grandma’s flat should rightfully be hers. But Grandma chose otherwise. Why? Probably because my husband and I lived with Grandma and cared for her during her final five years. My mum could quite rightfully be called selfish. Her wants and interests have always come before anyone else’s. She’s had three marriages but just two children: me and my younger sister. My sister and I have a great relationship. But things with Mum are a different story. I can’t even remember my dad. He divorced Mum when I was only two. Until I was six, Mum and I lived at Grandma’s. For some reason, I thought Grandma was terribly unpleasant—maybe because Mum was always in tears. Only later, as an adult, did I learn that Grandma was actually a good person, just desperate to set her daughter straight. Later, Mum married again and we moved in with my stepdad. That’s when my sister was born. Mum stayed with him for seven years, then divorced him too. This time we didn’t return to Grandma’s; instead my stepdad went off to work and let us stay in his flat. Three years later, Mum married a third time and we moved in with her new husband. Obviously, he wasn’t thrilled about his new wife’s kids, but he never treated us badly—he simply ignored us. So did Mum, who was busy being wrapped up in her new relationship, riddled with jealousy and dramatic outbursts. Every month, Mum would start packing her bags, but my stepdad always managed to talk her out of leaving. My sister and I got used to it, and eventually stopped caring. I took over raising my sister because Mum had no time. Luckily, both our grandmothers helped us a lot. I eventually left for university accommodation, and my sister went to live with Grandma. Dad always helped her, but Mum only called us at Christmas. I grew up accepting Mum as she was—the kind of parent who never worried about us. My sister, however, could never forgive her, and especially resented that Mum didn’t show up for her graduation. We both grew up. My sister married and moved to another city. My boyfriend and I lived together for ages but were in no hurry to wed, renting a place and visiting Grandma often. We were close, but I tried never to be a nuisance. Then Grandma fell ill and was hospitalised. The doctors told me she needed plenty of care, so I started coming daily—bringing groceries, cooking, cleaning, and, most importantly, making sure she took her medicines. For six months, this was life. Sometimes my boyfriend came too and handled the odd DIY job. One day, Grandma suggested we move in to save money for our own home. Of course we agreed. Grandma liked my boyfriend, and we all got on well. Six months later, I found out I was pregnant. We decided to keep the baby and Grandma was overjoyed about her great-grandchild. We had a simple wedding and took the family out to a café—my mum didn’t even show up or call with congratulations. When my daughter was just two months old, Grandma fell and broke her leg. Caring for a newborn and Grandma was almost impossible alone, so I called Mum for help. She refused, saying she wasn’t well and would come by another time—a promise she never kept. Six months later, Grandma suffered a stroke. Suddenly, she was bedridden. The care was gruelling, and I don’t know how I’d have managed without my husband. Grandma slowly regained some mobility and speech, and lived another two and a half years—long enough to watch her great-granddaughter learn to walk. She passed away quietly in her sleep, leaving us heartbroken. Mum only came to the funeral. A month later, she turned up demanding that I move out so she could claim the flat as her own. She was sure she’d inherit it—completely unaware Grandma had signed the property over to my daughter after she was born, leaving Mum without a penny. Mum was furious, demanding I hand over the flat or she’d sue. “Look how cunning you are! You tricked that old woman out of her flat and now you’re living there yourself! You won’t get away with this! It makes no difference who cared for Grandma—the flat should be mine!” But Mum won’t be getting that flat. I know this for sure—I’ve checked everything with the solicitor and notary. We will stay in the home Grandma gave us. And if our next child is a girl, we’ll give her Grandma’s name.

My Husband Left Me After Eleven Years of Marriage, Claiming the Reason Was Surprisingly Simple: He Said I’d Stopped Taking Care of Myself—Even Though He Never Once Spoke Openly About It When We Met, I Took Care of My Appearance Daily—Makeup, Stylish Clothes, Always Perfect Hair. I Worked, Went Out, Had Time for Myself. Then Came the Children, the Routines, the Responsibilities. I Kept Working, But Also Managed the House, the Food, the Cleaning, Doctors’ Appointments—All the Things That Keep a Family Going but Are Seldom Noticed. My Days Started Before 6am and Ended After Midnight. Many Times I’d Go Out Without Makeup Because There Simply Wasn’t Time. I’d Grab the First Clean Outfit I Could Find. Not Because I Didn’t Care—But Because I Was Exhausted. He’d Come Home, Eat, Watch TV, Fall Asleep—Never Asked How I Was or If I Needed Help. Gradually Came the Comments—That I Didn’t Look After Myself Like I Used To, That I Didn’t Wear Dresses, That I Looked Neglected. I Thought They Were Just Throwaway Remarks—Never Imagined They’d One Day Be His Reason to Leave. He Never Said “I Feel Distant From You” or “We Need to Talk.” He Just Packed His Bags One Day. The Day He Left He Told Me Clearly—He Didn’t Feel the Same, That I’d Changed, That He Missed the Woman Who Made an Effort for Him. I Reminded Him of Everything I Did For the Home, the Kids, Us. He Told Me It Wasn’t Enough—That He Needed to Feel Proud of the Woman by His Side. He Quietly Packed and Left. Days Later I Learned He Was Already Seeing Someone Else—A Woman Without Kids, With Time for the Gym, Able to Keep Herself Up Every Day. That’s When I Realised: The Problem Was Never Just the Makeup. Today I Still Wake Up Early, Still Work, Still Keep the Home Running. I Take Care of Myself When *I* Want, Not When Someone Demands It. I Didn’t Stop Looking After Myself for Lack of Love—I Stopped Because I Carried a Whole Life on My Shoulders. And Still, He Chose to Leave. I Think About Joining a Gym, But I Don’t Have Time. Whatever the Case—It Turns Out He Just Didn’t Want Me.