Here’s Why I Don’t Want to Leave My Children with Their Grandmas: At 31, I’m a Full-Time Mum to Two Little Girls, and After My First Child, I Realised Grandmas Can Sometimes Be More of a Hindrance Than a Help

Author Emily TaylorReading 4 minViews 1

Ill tell you why I never wished to leave my children alone in the care of their grandmothers.

I was thirty-one, with two little daughtersone barely a year old, the other three. I didnt work outside the home, by deliberate choiceI was, as we said, a mother through and through. When my first child was born, I naïvely assumed, quite naturally, that the grannies will help at the start. As it turned out, they were more a hindrance than a help, and I was left to manage things by myself.

Let me explain what I mean:

After my eldest was bornand even more so after we left the hospitalI felt so helpless. I had not the slightest idea where to begin with a baby. What now seems so straightforward, after two children, then caused restlessness to settle throughout the house. Looking back, its almost funny to realise, but in those days, there were no clear instructions written in the head about how to care for an infant.

For some reason, I expected that the elder generation, with their well of experience, would certainly know how to change nappies, bathe a baby, feed her, trim nails, and tend to every need. But I soon found their opinions clashed even on the subject of how best to give a bath!

In the end, I had to figure out everything myself and, in time, became deft with nappies and nursery routines.

Ive great respect and gratitude for both my mother and my mother-in-law, yet as I look back, certain things make me smile:

Grandmother 1 (my mother-in-law):

You ought to say a prayer over her water and only let the child drink from it.
Half a year on, I simply bought a filter for the tap.
For a while, she insisted on using that old brown Windsor soapsaid it was best for the child, and good for any rash.
Youre raising them wrong, thats why they get poorly. (Never mind why.)
If your little one wont stop crying, best take her to the wise woman in the villageshell sort her out.

Grandmother 2 (my mother):

Shed say, Cryings nothing to fret about. Shell get over it. A fever? Give her a tablet. All will be well.
Youre buying those children far too many toysyou should be thriftier.
Ill be down Saturday at one, to look after them for a bit, but I mustnt miss my three oclock matinee at the Odeon, so only until then. Every week, mind.
She believed there was no harm in a baby having something sweet or salty from six months old. If she wants it, let her have a try.

I love my mothertruly, I dobut I cant help questioning now, after all this time, the way we were brought up!

How she fed and nursed usor, more to the point, how she sometimes didnt. We were often left with our own grandmother, and as I recall, most days we ate little except plain boiled pasta, then at home, everything was cooked in lard. My coughs were ignored more than onceno surprise, then, that I eventually developed whooping cough. Now I begin to realise the root of those later stomach pains, and why my liver always seemed overworked.

So, thats why, as fond as I am of our grannies, I just cant imagine trusting them with the girls for more than a few hours at a time. Under my watchful eye, yes. But on their ownwell, Im not paranoid, but I cant help my worries.

I Looked After My Grandchildren for Free – Then My Daughter Gave Me a List of Criticisms About My Parenting – “Oh Mum, not again! You’ve given them those supermarket gingerbread biscuits! We agreed – only gluten-free cookies from the bakery on Queen’s Road,” Marina’s voice rang with outrage, as if I’d committed a major crime rather than serving up a snack for two five-year-olds. “They’re full of sugar and trans fats! Do you want them breaking out in rashes again? Or bouncing off the walls before bed?” Jean sighed heavily, brushing crumbs from the table into her palm. She wanted to say that the kids had outright refused the overpriced gluten-free biscuits from the local artisan bakery, calling them “cardboard,” and had wolfed down regular gingerbread as if it was nectar from the gods. But she kept silent. Lately, she’d learned it was easier not to stoke already simmering tensions. Her only daughter, Marina, stood in the kitchen in a sharp business suit, anxiously checking the time on her phone. She was late for an important meeting, but the nutrition lecture clearly took precedence over London’s morning traffic. “Marina, they were starving after the park,” Jean tried, rinsing mugs under the tap. “They barely touched their soup, just picked at their main. They needed a bit of energy.” “Energy, Mum, comes from complex carbs, not sugar!” her daughter snapped, reaching for her handbag. “Alright, I have to go. Tim will be back by 8. Please make sure they finish their speech therapy homework – and no screen time! I’ll be checking the browser history.” The door shut behind her, leaving a waft of expensive perfume and heavy tension in the air. Jean collapsed into a chair, feeling her lower back ache. Sixty-two years old, and two years ago she’d given up her job as chief accountant at a small business to help out with her grandsons, Ben and Charlie, at her daughter’s insistence. “Why bother working, Mum?” Tim, her son-in-law, had persuaded her. “We’ve got this mortgage, we’re both building our careers. We need reliable childcare. Can’t trust a stranger with the boys – and good nannies cost a fortune nowadays. This way, you’re with your grandkids and we can focus on work.” At the time, it sounded fair – even appealing. Jean adored her grandsons, and to be honest, her job had become tiring. She imagined blissful afternoons in the park, storybooks at bedtime, crafts at the kitchen table. The reality, of course, was quite different. Now, her working day began at 7 a.m. She crossed half the city from her little flat to Marina and Tim’s new build in Chiswick, arriving before the boys woke up. Her daughter and son-in-law left early, returned late; all domestic chores, ferrying kids to their clubs and clinics, all fell on Grandma. Ben was a boisterous five-year-old, Charlie a headstrong three-year-old deep in the “I’ll do it!” phase. That evening, as always, Jean built Lego castles with the boys, coached Ben on his speech therapy (“s” versus “sh” woes), and coaxed them through dinner – broccoli lost once again to sneaky sausages she’d boiled up against orders. After bathtime and bedtime stories, she was barely upright when Tim came home, barely grunting a “thanks” as he grabbed a snack from the fridge. On the bus home, city lights flickering by, Jean realised even “thank you” had become automatic, like she was some kind of washing machine completing a cycle, not a family member. No one asked if she was okay, whether her blood pressure – which had been up-and-down all week with the weather – was any better. Things reached a head that weekend. Normally, Jean stayed home, catching up on sleep or her own errands – but Friday night, Marina rang. “Mum, we need a family meeting on Sunday. Come for lunch – we need to talk seriously,” her daughter said firmly. Jean’s stomach dropped. Nothing good ever followed that tone. That Sunday, she arrived, homemade cheese and onion quiche in hand – Tim’s favourite – but the atmosphere was all wrong: formal, tense, the kids banished to watch Disney Plus while the adults sat at the table with laptops and notepads. “We’ve reviewed the past six months,” said Marina, avoiding eye contact. “We need to systematise the boys’ upbringing. There are things we’re quite unhappy about.” “We’ve drawn up a list,” Tim chimed in, spinning his laptop so she could see their Excel spreadsheet with bullet points and colour-coded highlights. “First: Diet,” Marina began, pen-tapping her notepad. “You systematically break their meal plan. Gingerbread, sausages, homemade bakes – it’s a carb overload! We need you to stick exactly to the menu on the fridge. No exceptions.” “They won’t eat turkey burgers, Marina – they’re children!” Jean tried to protest. “Second: Routine,” Tim interrupted. “Last week Charlie went to bed at 9.30, not 9. That’s unacceptable.” Jean recalled that night: Charlie had tummy ache, she’d soothed him for half an hour, singing lullabies until he dozed off. “Third: Education,” Marina continued. “Ben still confuses colours in English. Are you using the flashcards I bought? He needs structured cognitive exercises, not just cars and blocks.” “Marina, he’s only five! Can’t he just be a little boy? We read, we count conkers in the park…” “Conkers – that’s outdated,” her daughter sniffed. “And discipline – you let them walk all over you. You spoil them. You need to be firmer. No treats, no cuddles for tantrums, timeouts if necessary. You’re too soft. It’s unprofessional.” The word “unprofessional” stung hardest. “And finally,” Tim concluded, “we’ve drawn up a schedule and KPIs… you know, performance indicators. We’ll review progress weekly. If their English doesn’t improve, we’ll need to hire a private tutor – that’s an extra expense we hoped to avoid.” Jean stared at her quiche cooling on the side, at her family’s severe faces, and realized she was just an unpaid contractor failing her targets. “So, that’s a list of grievances?” she asked quietly. “Mum, don’t put it like that – just growth opportunities,” Marina grimaced. “We want an organised approach.” Jean rose. Years of senior accounting had taught her to keep her composure, even during ugly audits. “You want a professional teacher, dietitian, chef, cleaner – with fluent English, Montessori training, and military-style discipline. Well, let’s talk contracts. A nanny like that in London is £15 an hour, minimum – twelve hours a day, five days a week. That’s £900 a week, nearly £4,000 a month. Not counting overtime, cooking, and cleaning for the whole family.” Tim laughed nervously. “Jean, you’re their grandma! Not a contractor!” “A Granny,” she replied icily, “is someone who spoils her grandkids at weekends, brings treats, and tells stories – on her own terms. Someone forced to abide a list of demands and KPIs is a paid worker. And paid work deserves wages. We abolished slavery long ago.” “Mum, how can you talk about money? We’re family!” Marina gasped. “I’ve done this for love, but love isn’t valued here. You’ve made it transactional. So – I’m resigning. Find yourselves a proper professional nanny for your spreadsheet.” The shock on their faces was plain. That week, Jean ignored their calls, caught up on sleep, met old friends for lunch, bought herself a new dress for the first time in years, and finally read the book she’d had on her bedside for ages. Eventually, Marina caved. They’d found a new nanny – a stern woman who charged a fortune, ate organic-only, watched the kids like a boot-camp sergeant. The boys, missing Grandma’s warmth, wilted under strict rules. Marina looked exhausted, Tim exasperated. When Jean visited, both daughter and son-in-law finally admitted: “We were idiots. Please come back. No more lists. Just love them. Spoil them with gingerbread. Let them watch Winnie the Pooh. We’ll pay! More than the nanny!” Jean shook her head. “No money. I’m not hired help. I’ll do three days a week, 9 to 6. No evenings, no weekends. I raise them my way, no interference. One cross look or complaint – I’m gone. I help, but I will not be your housekeeper.” They agreed – and fired the nanny. Sometimes, the only way for people to appreciate you is to walk away and let them see the difference. Love, with healthy boundaries, makes a family stronger. Leave the spreadsheets at the office – every granny has her own methods, tried and true, far richer than any KPI.

“All Right Then, Dear Mum! You Have Your Own Home—That’s Where You Belong. Don’t Come Over Unless We Invite You.” My mother lives in a quaint English village, nestled beside a gentle river. A stretch of woodland starts just behind her garden, and in season, we gather bountiful berries and wild mushrooms. Since childhood, I’d run through familiar meadows with a basket, relishing nature’s gifts. I married my schoolmate, whose parents live nearby, just across the lane. Their garden doesn’t have access to the river or the woods, so when we visit from the city, we always stay with my mum. Lately, mum’s changed—perhaps it’s her age, or perhaps jealousy over my husband—leading to holiday visits that spiral into arguments. Peaceful resolutions became rare. Once, when we stayed with my in-laws, mum picked a fight with her own beau over trivial matters. My mother-in-law was so upset, she shouted so loudly the whole lane could hear their long-standing grievances. A month later, once tempers cooled, my husband and I hatched a plan—to build our own home, so no one’s feelings would be hurt and we’d have a place to truly belong. Sorting out the land took ages, but we managed. My in-laws eagerly pitched in; my father-in-law was a constant presence on our building site. But mum was nothing but trouble—coming over, offering unsolicited advice, insulting our progress, making peace impossible. Building the house became a nightmare. A year passed; the house was finished, but relief was short-lived. Mum wouldn’t stop dropping by, accusing us of selfishness and threatening to withdraw her help—forgetting how my husband had always been there to mow her lawn or fix her roof. One day, mum asked: “Why do you even come here anymore? Stay in your city home—when you visit, you’re just flaunting what you have.” That broke my husband’s patience. He calmly approached his mother-in-law, but there was something in his calm that made her edge toward the door. “What are you doing, son-in-law…?” she asked. “Nothing, dear mum! You’ve got your house—so live there. Don’t come here unless we invite you. Let us have a weekend to ourselves now and then. If you need help, call us; if there’s a fire, we’ll come running!” “What do you mean, what fire?” At those words, mum made a hasty exit. I stifled laughter watching her hurry out the gate. My husband, after calming down, raised his hands: “Well, maybe I did go a bit far with the fire comment.” “No, you’re quite right.” We laughed together, recalling the look on mum’s face. Since then, peace has reigned in our new home. Mum no longer pops by, graciously accepts my husband’s help, but only speaks in simple yes or no answers. I suspect she’s still thinking about that imaginary fire.