“It’s not my job to be your nanny or housekeeper,” I told my daughter—I’m not obligated to babysit my granddaughter, and I’ve got my own plans too.
It all started with the happiest of occasions—the birth of my granddaughter. As a loving mother and grandmother, I threw myself into helping: sleepless nights, strolls with the baby, ironing tiny onesies, mashing up food, preparing baths. I thought it was my duty, my way of supporting my daughter and her family. I remembered how exhausting those early months of motherhood had been for me—how badly I’d needed help back then.
But slowly, my involvement began to be taken for granted. My daughter and son-in-law started treating me like free childcare. First, it was “Mum, could you watch Emily for a couple of hours?” Then it became evenings, then entire weekends. More and more often, I heard: “Mum, stay with Emily, we’re going to a class,” “Mum, you’re at home, can you pick her up from nursery?” “Mum, we’ve got the gym—cover for us.”
And I did. Because what else could I do? You can’t just leave a child at nursery. But soon, I noticed my “just helping out” had turned into a full-time responsibility. I no longer factored into their plans—they scheduled their lives and expected me to adjust.
Then came the moment that pushed me over the edge. My daughter called to say she and her husband had a work party, but Emily wouldn’t be going to nursery because she had a slight cough. Her husband, of course, had already gone fishing with his mates, and she “couldn’t possibly miss” the event—it was work-related. I bit my tongue, got ready, and took Emily. Because no matter what, she’s my granddaughter, and I love her. But inside, I was simmering with resentment.
Then today, the final straw. My daughter rang, chirpy as ever, to announce she and Tom were flying to Spain. For two weeks. I congratulated them, then asked, “Are you taking Emily?” The reply knocked me flat:
“Of course not. You’ll look after her. We’ve already booked the flights—all-inclusive hotel and everything.”
That was it. No question, no discussion. Just an assumption. They didn’t even bother to check if I was free, if I had plans. Apparently, retirees aren’t allowed lives or choices—just grandchildren and kitchen duty.
I picked up the phone and said, calmly but firmly, “Claire, I’m not your nanny. I’m not your maid. You’re adults with a child—that’s your responsibility. If you want a couples’ holiday, either take Emily with you or find someone else. I’ve got my own plans—Margaret and I booked a spa retreat a month ago.”
Silence on the other end. Then came the meltdown. She screamed that I was selfish, that I was a terrible grandmother, that “normal grandmas live for their grandchildren,” and all I cared about was myself. “What else are you going to do—sit in front of the telly?”
I’m done justifying myself. I helped out of love, not obligation. But when love gets exploited, boundaries have to be set.
Yes, I’m retired. That doesn’t mean my life’s over. I’ve got plans, energy, limits—health to consider, for heaven’s sake. Why didn’t anyone ask if I wanted to spend two weeks alone with a child, no breaks, no rest? Why should I sacrifice myself for their holiday?
I adore my granddaughter. But I won’t let my love be used as an excuse to take advantage of me. And if that means a fallout with my daughter—so be it. Real family means respect. Not entitlement.
I said no—for the first time in years. And I felt the weight lift from my shoulders. Because I’m not a nanny. Not a maid. I’m her mother. And I’m a woman with my own right to a life.
