For eight years, I watched over my grandchildren for not a single penny… and yesterday, they told me they preferred the other gran, because she never scolds them and brings them tablets.
I am the Gran of the Warm Broth.
The gran who takes them to school, wipes noses, cooks, washes, irons, hefts bookbags, switches off the lights behind them, and tucks them in when their parents are late.
The other gran is glamorous.
The one who sails in from time to timecarrying bunches of flowers, with perfume cloud trailing after her, gleaming gifts, and big surprises.
She knows nothing of sitting up through the hours with a coughing child.
But she knows how to buy the latest tablet.
Yesterday, my grandchildren asked me if I could be more like her.
And for the first time, I understood what it is to become invisible inside your own effort.
I am Gran Margaret. Sixty-two years old.
I have a daughterHelen,
And two grandchildrenCharles (8) and Emily (6).
Helen works. Her husbandGeorgeworks as well.
And because they cant afford a childminder and dont trust those playcentres, they simply decided that I, a pensioner, should spend the rest of my days caring for their children.
And I did.
Deliberately.
With love.
With devotion.
I rise at half five.
By half six, Im at their home.
I make breakfast.
I peel away the pyramid of socks, hunt for missing shirts, dress them, tie laces, heft bookbags, drive them to school.
Afterwardstidying, arranging, preparing meals, laundry.
AfternoonI scoop them up again.
Homework, naps, broth a touch of discipline.
I am the Gran of the Rules.
The gran of boundaries.
The gran who says:
No sweets before tea,
Wash your hands,
Thats enough with the tablet,
Finish your homework.
Or, in other words, the boring gran.
Across the other side is CynthiaGeorges mother.
Cynthia hasnt worked in years.
She has plenty of money.
A woman with well-kept nails, fresh salons, going-out clothes, and trips to Italy and France.
Cynthia has never brewed tea at 3am for a feverish child.
Never hunted for the missing sock.
Never wiped sick from the carpet.
Never chased round the kitchen with a spoon.
Cynthia is a guest star.
Appears twice a yearChristmas and birthdays
with presents, chocolates, and the very latest gadgets.
The children idolise her.
As all children idolise the one who doesnt lay out boundaries.
Yesterday was Charless birthday.
I rose at five in the morning to bake his favourite homemade cake.
With egg, with custard, with walnutsjust as he likes.
I bought him a lovely book and a warm hoodieas far as my pension would stretch.
By four oclock, Cynthia had arrived.
With a new hairstyle, bright perfume and a shiny handbag.
She swept in like a television presenter.
Darlings! she sang out.
Charles and Emily ran to her as if she were a rockstar.
They skipped past me as though I were wallpaper.
Cynthia unboxed two shining white cases.
Two brand new tablets.
To keep you happy, she chirped. And today, no one can say how long you play!
The children squealed with joy.
Helen and George beamed:
Brilliant, Mum! Youre incredible! Thank you!
I stood in the kitchen, cutting the cake.
The one Id woken before dawn to make.
The one nobody looked at.
I went to Charles.
Charlie, love, heres my gift. And the cake
He didnt look up.
Not now, gran. Im setting up my character.
But, gran
Gran! Its always cake. The other gran brings real presents! You always give books and jumpers. Boring.
A pain like that…
I wouldnt wish it on anyone.
I looked at Helen.
I thought, at least, she would say Dont talk to your gran like that!
What did she do?
She laughed.
Oh, Mum, dont fuss. The children love new things. Cynthia is the fun gran. Youre… youre the routine gran.
The routine gran.
Is that what caring is called now?
Emily finished the job:
I wish Gran Cindy lived here. She doesnt tell us off. Youre always tired.
I glanced down at my handscracked from soap, laundry, and scrubbing.
I looked at Cynthiafresh, two tablets in hand, goddess for the day.
I looked at my daughterrelaxed with a glass of wine, because I was there to do it all.
I took off my apron.
Folded it neatly.
Left it on the worktop.
I went to the sitting room.
Helen, Im going home.
What? What about the cake? The clearing up? Wholl put everything right!?
Wont the fun gran help out?
Cynthia smiled, forced:
Oh Margaret, I cantmy sciatica…
Dont worry. I wont ask you to spoil your outfit.
I looked at Helen:
The children are right. Im boring. Im strict. Im the one who sets boundaries and feeds them vegetables.
And perhaps they need a little freedom.
So from tomorrow, Im finished.
Mum, how could you!? Whos going to take them to school tomorrow!?
I dont know. Perhaps Cynthia. Or sell one of those tablets and hire a proper carer.
We need you!
No. You want a SERVANT. And that, I am not.
I looked at Charles.
Gran wont you come tomorrow?
No, dear. Tomorrow will be fun.
No one telling you to eat your greens, do your homework, or go to bed on time.
Freedom.
And I left.
My phone rings and rings.
Helencrying.
Georgetelling me Im making a fuss.
But I wont be back.
Tomorrow, I shall wake at nine.
Make myself a coffee.
Eat my own slice of cake.
And watch a serial.
For the first time in yearsIll be the main character in my own life.
Do you think grans are obliged to watch the grandchildren,
or do the children simply use them to save money?
