*Diary Entry*
Why have children if you don’t have time for them now? I refuse to spend my days babysitting my grandchildren and sacrificing what’s left of my life.
I’m tired of pretending. Tired of acting like everything’s fine—like I’m the doting, ever-patient grandmother with nothing better to do than mind the kids and ladle out soup. The truth is, I can’t do it anymore. I’m sixty, retired—but does that mean my world should revolve around someone else’s children?
I say *someone else’s* deliberately. My grandchildren aren’t my responsibility. I’ve already raised two sons. Gave them everything—sleepless nights, endless worries, my savings, my health. Nursed them through fevers, tantrums, scraped knees. Back then, I never dreamed of palming them off to a grandparent or a neighbour. That was *my* job. Because I chose to have them, to raise them, to give them all I had.
Now they’re grown. Families, careers, their own lives—and somehow, it’s just *expected* that I’ll be on standby. Take the kids so they can get their nails done. Pick them up from nursery when they fancy a spontaneous cinema trip. Ferry them to doctors’ appointments while they’re tied up with work. Or sometimes, simply because they’re *tired.* And me?
I’m tired too. I have my own life—friends, routines, hobbies, supper clubs, little getaways. After retiring, I finally started doing things I’d put off for decades. I joined a dance class, go to the theatre, bake Victoria sponge on Sundays, and lose myself in period dramas. I’m alive. And I want to *live.*
But my children, especially James, act blind to it. Last week, he dropped my grandson off without even asking.
*”Mum, you’re home anyway. Just watch him for a couple hours.”*
I was about to visit my old friend Margaret. We hadn’t seen each other in months. There I stood, clutching my tea, watching him button his coat and dart off for some “urgent meeting.” No apology. No *”Are you free?”* Just left the boy like a parcel at the post office.
I don’t hate my grandchildren. I love them—truly. They’re sweet, funny, smelling of biscuits and baby shampoo. But I shouldn’t have to drop everything every time it suits their parents. Cancel my plans. Surrender my days.
Later, while scrambling to figure out supper, my younger son, Thomas, rang. They’re expecting a baby. I cried—happy tears, of course—but dread coiled in my chest. So now I’ll be tugged between two households? Mondays and Wednesdays with one, Tuesdays with the other? Am I meant to schedule my life around their convenience?
After the call, I sank onto the sofa. Is this really my lot now? Retirement isn’t the end—it’s another chapter. Why should I become a free nanny just because it’s *easy* for them?
I told James I’d help this once, but from now on, he’d need to ask properly. That I wasn’t on-call childcare. That I have my own life. He called me selfish. But is it selfishness to want to breathe?
Twenty-five years I worked without a break. Raised them, paid mortgages, wore worn-out shoes so they had new schoolbooks. I don’t regret it—but now I want to wake at dawn with coffee and a novel, not nappies and porridge. I want to be their grandmother, not their maid.
Times have changed. Women are bolder now, honest. We’ve earned the right to rest, to boundaries, to say *no.* I’ll help—but helping isn’t the same as *taking over.* It’s showing up when I choose to, not because guilt demands it.
If you can’t handle raising a child—maybe think twice before having one. I didn’t birth replacements. I raised adults. And adults should shoulder their own burdens.
So yes, I’ll be Granny. On weekends, when it suits *me.* When I offer. Never at my own expense.
And d’you know what? I don’t feel an ounce of guilt. For the first time in years, I feel *right.*
*—Lesson learned: Kindness shouldn’t cost you your soul.*
