“Why have kids if you can’t be bothered to look after them?” — I refuse to spend my golden years babysitting and sacrificing my life.
I’ve had enough of pretending. Enough of playing the sweet, patient grandma who lives only to spoon-feed soup to her grandchildren. The truth? I can’t do it anymore. I’m sixty. Yes, I’m retired. But does that mean my life now revolves entirely around other people’s children?
And I say *other people’s* deliberately. Because grandkids aren’t *my* kids. I’ve already done my time—raised two sons, poured everything into them: energy, nerves, health, money. Nursed them through tantrums, fevers, sleepless nights. Back then, I never dreamed of palming them off on Granny or the neighbour—I handled it myself. Because that’s what you do. Because I *chose* to have them, raise them, invest in them.
Now they’re grown. They’ve got careers, families, busy lives. And they take it for granted that I’m their on-call babysitter—available whenever they fancy a manicure, a spontaneous cinema trip, or just a breather. Meanwhile, what about *me*?
I’m tired too. I have a life. Friends, hobbies, theatre outings, baking Victoria sponges, bingeing French films. I’m finally doing things I never had time for before. I’m alive. I want to *live*.
But my eldest, especially, acts oblivious. Just last week, he dumped his son on my doorstep without so much as a “Mum, are you free?”
“You’re home anyway,” he said. “Just a couple of hours.”
Except I was heading to my friend Margaret’s—we hadn’t caught up in six months. I stood there, clutching my tea, watching him zip up his coat and dash off to some “urgent meeting.” No apology. No thought that I might have plans. Just treated me like left luggage.
Don’t get me wrong—I adore my grandkids. Truly! They’re cheeky, hilarious, and smell like biscuits and bubble bath. But I’m not their on-duty nanny. I shouldn’t have to cancel my plans or sacrifice my sanity every time someone fancies a day off.
Later, as I rummaged through my cupboards for something to feed the little one, my younger son called with “exciting news”—another baby on the way. Cue happy tears, yes. But also dread. Double the grandkids, double the demands? Am I now a shared custody arrangement? Monday-Wednesday-Friday with one, Tuesday-Thursday with the other?
After the call, I flopped onto the sofa and wondered: Is this it? Retirement isn’t the end—it’s a new chapter. Why should I trade it for unpaid childcare just because my kids find it convenient?
I told my eldest: This time, fine. But next time? Ask first. I’m not a service. I have things to do. He called me selfish. But is it selfish to want a life?
I worked nonstop for twenty-five years. Raised kids, paid mortgages, skipped new shoes to buy their schoolbooks. No regrets—but now it’s *my* turn. I want to wake up to coffee and a book, not cereal and nappies. I want to be Grandma, not the help.
Times have changed. Women are braver, louder about their limits. We deserve rest, space, choices. I’ll help—when *I* choose to. Not because it’s expected.
If you can’t handle parenting, maybe think twice before having kids. I didn’t raise replacements—I raised adults who should own their decisions.
So yes, I’ll be a grandma—on weekends, when it suits *me*. And here’s the best part? I don’t feel guilty. For the first time in years, I feel like myself.
