I remember it well, though many years have passeda time when I cared for my grandchildren without a penny of compensation, only to be handed a thorough list of grievances over my parenting.
Honestly, Mum! Youve given them those shop-bought ginger biscuits again, Rebeccas voice rang through the kitchen, bristling with indignation, as if Id committed the crime of the century, not simply given the boys a treat with their tea. We agreedONLY gluten-free oatcakes from that bakery in High Street! Its all sugar and e-numbers in those! Do you want another rash or for them to be bouncing off the walls before bed?
I exhaled, gathering crumbs from the table into my palm. Rebecca didnt know that the gluten-free oatcakescosting as much as a train ticket to Brightonhad been roundly rejected as like cardboard, while the ginger biscuits from Waitrose vanished so quickly I barely kept count. But I said nothing. Lately, Id learned the value of silence, lest I fan the smouldering embers of an argument.
Rebecca was my only child. She stood in the kitchen in a sharp suit, glancing at her watch as she prepared to dash off to a meeting that clearly ranked behind her latest lecture on healthy nutrition.
They were peckish after their walk, I said, rinsing teacups under the tap. They picked at the stew and refused the greens. They needed something for energy.
Energy, Mum, comes from complex carbohydrates, not sugar! she snapped, slinging her handbag over her shoulder. Right. I must dash. William will be home at eight. Please make sure they finish their speech therapy exercises, and absolutely NO electronicsIll check the browser history later.
She slammed the door, leaving behind not only her expensive perfume but the thick, heavy tension wed grown accustomed to. I sank into a chair, my back sore and legs tired. I was sixty-two. Two years before, prompted by my daughter and son-in-law, Id left my post as head of accounts at a decent little firm so I could devote myself to my grandsonsEdward and Charlie.
Why keep working, Mum? William had reasoned at the time. Rebecca and I are both building careers, budgeting for the mortgage. We need your help at home, but even more, we need someone we trust. Good nannies are so expensive these days, and wed rather family than a stranger. Think how much simpler for everyone.
At the time it seemed sensible, even appealing. I adored my grandsons; truth be told, the ledger work was becoming a grind. I pictured cheerful walks to the park, reading fairy tales, afternoons making playdough animals. Reality was rather different.
My day now began at seven. I travelled halfway across London from my little flat on the council estate to the childrens newly-finished semi, to be there before the boys woke. Rebecca and William both left early, and returned late. All the daily running about for clubs, check-ups, enrichment activitiesthe logistics fell to me. Edward was a loud, boisterous five-year-old, Charlie a testy three-year-old in the throes of I can do it myself.
That evening unfolded like most. I helped the boys build a fortress out of blocks, explaining to Edward the difference between s and sh as per the speech therapist, refereed the dinner battlebroccoli lost to sausages, which I quietly boiled for them when they refused anything else. Then bath, stories, and bed. When the key finally turned and William appeared, I was so spent I could barely see straight.
William, tall and slightly overweight, wearing the usual furrow of worry, came into the kitchen, nodded at me, and disappeared into the fridge.
Rebecca not back yet? he asked, sandwich already half-assembled.
Shes at a late meeting, I replied, packing up. Ill make a move or Ill miss the last bus, and I cant afford a taxi this week with fares what they are.
Of course, of course, he murmured, nose in his phone. Thanks, Mrs. Bennett. Make sure the doors tightthe locks sticky.
On the bus home, lights darted past the window as I mulled over the evening. Even the thank you had come across mechanical, as if I were a washing machine finishing its cycle. No one asked how I was doing, or if my blood pressurewhich had been volatile for days with the weatherneeded looking after.
Tensions reached a head that weekend. On most Saturdays and Sundays, I tried to rest and tend to my own affairs. But Friday night, Rebecca called.
Mum, sorry, but can you come round on Sunday? William and I need a proper family meeting. Lunch time, if you canwe need to talk.
A chill ran through me at her tone. Was something wrong? A debt? Health? I baked a cheese and onion pieWilliam’s favouriteand headed over. The atmosphere was formal, even chilly. The boys were dispatched to their room for cartoons (normally tv was strictly rationed) while the grown-ups gathered round the living room table.
William had his laptop open, Rebecca clutched a notepad. My pie sat awkwardly at the tables edge, strangely out of place next to their gadgets and stern faces.
Mum, weve reviewed the last six months, Rebecca began, looking everywhere but at me. And we think its important to systemise the boys upbringing. There are things were simply not happy with.
Not happy? I echoed, my hands icy. What do you mean?
Weve made a list. William turned the laptop toward me. Up flashed a colour-coded Excel chart. Nothing personal, Mrs. Bennett. Just feedbackways to improve.
I squinted. Graphs, bullet points, highlighted boxes. Rebecca began ticking them off, referencing her notes and the screen.
First: Nutrition. You routinely disregard the boys’ dietary needs. Ginger biscuits, sausages, your pies. Its too much refined carbohydrate. Please stick strictly to my weekly menu on the fridge. No deviations.
But they wont eat turkey mince balls, Rebecca! I protested. Theyre little. They need to enjoy what they eat.
Eating habits are formed in childhood, William interrupted, tone scholarly. Second: Bedtime routine. Last week, Charlie went down at 9:30pm, not 9:00. Missing half an hour disrupts melatonin productionunacceptable.
I bit my lip. That evening, Charlie had a tummy ache. I sat stroking his back, singing a lullaby til he slept.
Third: Learning. Edward is still mixing up his colours in English. Are you using the flashcards I bought? Our developmental plan is specifiche needs cognitive stimulation, not just toy cars.
Rebecca, hes five! Children need childhood, not Oxford entrance coaching. We count conkers in the park
Counting conkers? Really, Mum? That’s old hat. And disciplineyoure too soft. The boys walk all over you. We need firmer boundaries, punishments when needed, no pudding, even time-outs. You just coddle them. This isnt professional.
That word stung most of all.
And finally, William concluded, weve drawn up KPIskey performance indicators. Each week we’ll check progress. If theres no improvement, well have to hire a tutor, and thats extra expense, something we thought youd help us avoid.
I gazed at my cooling pie, at the faces of my own family turned iron-fisted managers, ready to dismiss a failing employee. I recalled two years of lugging prams through snowy streets, sitting up all night with a feverish Edward while Rebecca dashed across the country for work, of mopping their floors, scrimping on my own coat for the boys sake.
All along Id believed I was doing it out of love, for family. Evidently, I was just unpaid help performing below expectations.
Silence dragged on, broken only by the childrens cartoon in the next room.
So, my list of faults? I asked quietly. My voice, far from shaky, was unexpectedly firm.
Oh Mum, its not faults, just areas to grow Rebecca protested.
I understand, I said, standing. William, please email me your spreadsheet. I want to review it properly.
Of course! Great, he replied, mistaking compliance for agreement.
Now, heres my own feedback, I straightened up, drawing on all my years of keeping calm in audits. If you want a professionalgoverness, nutritionist, chef and cleaner rolled into onefluent in English, Montessori trained, a strict disciplinarianyoull need to add one thing.
Whats that? Rebecca bristled.
An employment contract and a wage, I replied calmly. This is England. We dont have unpaid labour anymore. A private nanny in London earns around £10-£12 an hour by my reckoning. Im with you from eight to eight, five days a week: 60 hours. Thats at least £600 per week, £2,400 a month, not counting late nights, or all that cooking and cleaning.
William spluttered a half-laugh. Mrs. Bennett, dont be silly. Youre their grandmother! Not a paid worker.
Grandmother, William, is who comes by on weekends, bakes pies, spoils her grandchildren, and tells stories when she feels like it. But someone handed an itinerary of tasks, KPIs, and told off for underperformingthats a staff member. And staff get paid. Slaverys been illegal here since 1833.
Rebecca leapt up. Mum! Must you make it all about money? Were family! We thought you helped because you love them!
I love them more than my own life, I said, tears pricking but refusing to drop. Which is precisely why Ive wrecked my health these two years, dragging prams and enduring your criticisms. I endured, because I believed I was helping. But today, youve made it clear Im just undervalued help. SoIm resigning.
What? both cried at once.
Thats right. As of tomorrow, find a professional. Someone wholl feed them broccoli, practice Mandarin in their sleep, and put them to bed by the second hand. Ill go back to being a grandmother. Ill visit on Sundays. With ginger biscuits.
I took my bag, adjusted my scarf.
Eat the pie, its good for you. Goodbye.
I stepped out into the quiet. When the door shut behind me, I heard my daughters shout, muffled: What are we supposed to do now!?
I didnt walkI floated home. Afraid, but oddly light, as if some invisible boulder had slipped from my shoulders. That evening, for the first time in two years, I did not prepare tomorrows dinner for a family of five. I made myself a pot of herbal tea, put on an old film, and switched off my phone.
The week that followed was a barrage of phone calls. Rebecca called, first injured, then apologetic. William, too, trying guilt. I stood my ground.
My blood pressure, Rebecca. Doctor says rest, I lied, lying comfortably on the sofa, reading a book I hadnt touched in ages. No, Im busy. I have my hair appointment. And theatre with a friend. Youll manageafter all, youre so systematic.
And I did go to the theatre, bought myself a new dress, slept soundly for once. The world took on colours Id forgotten, sparkling through the haze of exhaustion and obligation.
Snippets of news reached me. First, the children had to take turns with annual leave. Then, apparently, they found a nanny.
A month later, on a Sunday, I returned as promised. The house was in an uproarshoes scattered in the hall, dishes stacked high. The boys hurled themselves at me, shouting me down with laughter.
Gran! Grans here! Edward wrapped arms round my neck; Charlie clung to my leg.
A woman emerged from the kitchenlarge, fearsome, with an air of schoolmistress.
Edward! Charlie! Off! Now! she barked, and I felt a pang seeing them deflate instantly.
Hello, Im their grandmother, I offered.
Mrs. Morris, the nanny, she retorted. No fussingtheyre on structured play. Back to it, boys.
The boys trudged away, faces fallen. Rebecca appeared, haggard and sapped.
Hello, Mum. No pride in her voice. Tea?
Mrs. Morris, would you mind making tea? Rebecca tried.
Not my remit, she sniffed, glued to her phone. Im engaged for childcare only, not domestic tasks. Make it yourself. And, by the way, last week I did fifteen minutes overtime on Wednesdayyouve not added it to my pay.
Rebecca forced a smile and filled the kettle herself, jaw clenched.
Conversation failed. I watched as my daughter wilted, William staring at his laptop even on his day off, the nanny scowling over every minor giggle.
Nice woman? I whispered when the nanny left the room.
Agency sent her, Rebecca sighed. London Elite Staff. Speaks three languages, references from diplomats. £2,000 a month plus food, and she eats as if for a regiment. Insists on organic everything.
Well, you wanted a professional, I couldnt help myself.
Rebecca lowered her head and suddenly began to cry, mascara smudging as she wiped at her eyes.
Mum. This is hell. She drills them like soldiers. Charlies wetting himself at night. Edward keeps begging for you. No cartoons at allapparently theyre bad for eyesight. Shes always on her phone. And dismissing her is a nightmareweve burned through two other nannies already. Moneys pouring outwere dipping into the credit card.
I saw my daughter crumbling, my heart thawing. But I knew that if I gave in straight away, nothing would changenew lists, new disappointment, would be arriving within the week.
Dont cry, I handed her a tissue. All experience costs, but youve learnt something.
Mum, will you come back? William begged, looking utterly lost. We were idiots. Who makes performance charts about a grandma? We were justcomplacent. Forgive us.
Rebecca nodded, eyes red. No more lists, Mum. No more rules. Feed them whatever you want. I dont care if its ginger biscuits or shoe polish, as long as theyre happy. Bedtimes up to you. And well pay you! More than we ever paid the nanny!
I sipped my tea, letting the silence settle. In the next room, Mrs. Morris was scolding Charlie for dropping a block.
No need to pay me, I said slowly. Im not your employee; Im their grandmother. Money spoils family bonds. But I wont work myself into the ground again.
I took out a piece of paperyes, Id come prepared.
Here are my conditions. Ill do three days a week. Tuesday to Thursday, nine until six. Evenings and weekends are mine. Mondays and Fridays, I’ve got my own thingsgarden, medical appointments. For those days, hire someone else or sort it yourselves.
Agreed! William said eagerly.
Second: I decide how to be with my grandchildren. I raised you, Rebeccaand you turned out all right. If a ginger biscuit is what happiness needs, its what theyll get. If a round of Winnie-the-Pooh is in order, so be it. If not, wellyou know where to find Mrs. Morris.
Thats perfect, Mum, Rebecca beamed through her tears.
And finally, respect. If I so much as hear the word unprofessional or see a face because I didnt wash the dishes, Ill leave. Im helping with the boys, not keeping house. The rest is your business.
No problem, Mum. Well even get a cleaner. Weve learned our lesson.
Good. Now, go dismiss your sergeant. My nerves are in bits after hearing her shout at Charlie.
Mrs. Morris left, rumbling about compensation (William paid her gladly just to see the back of her). At last, peace.
Gran! Charlie barrelled out, cuddling me with relief. Is that lady really gone? She was mean.
She is, sweetheart. Shes not coming back.
Will you make pies with us again? Edward asked, hope shining in his eyes.
Of course. But only on Tuesdays. Today, Grans reading you a story and then heading home for her own tea.
Later, William called me a taxiexecutive class, no less. Rebecca packed me off with organic delicacies left by the nanny. Our goodbyes were long, honest, and lovingthe kind fitting a proper family.
In the plush seat home, gazing out into the London night, I felt the future wouldnt be easy. The children would try it on; the chores would keep coming. But I was armoured now. I knew my worth, andmost importantlyso did they.
Sometimes, you must simply step away, let them see the difference. Love is a marvellous thing, but boundaries make it that much stronger. Leave the spreadsheets for the office. Grandmothers have their own methodstried, true, and filled with lovefar beyond anything an Excel sheet could measure.
