*”Why have kids if you don’t have time for them?”* — I won’t babysit my grandchildren and sacrifice my life.
I’ve had enough of staying quiet. Enough of pretending everything’s fine—that I’m just some sweet, endlessly patient grandmother with nothing better to do than mind the grandkids and stir soup on the stove. But the truth is, I can’t do it anymore. I’m sixty. Yes, I’m retired. But does that mean my life should revolve around someone else’s children?
I say *someone else’s* deliberately. Because grandchildren aren’t my children. I’ve already walked that path—raised two sons of my own, pouring everything into them: time, nerves, health, money. Nursed them through fevers, tantrums, sleepless nights, never once thinking to palm them off to my mum or a neighbour. Because that’s what you do. Because that was *my* choice—to bring them up, to give them everything.
Now they’re grown. Jobs, families, their own lives. And they’ve decided it’s a given that I’ll pick up the slack. Babysit while they get a manicure. Collect the little ones from nursery when they fancy a last-minute cinema trip. Take them to the doctor because work comes first. Or sometimes, just because they’re *tired*. Well, what about me?
I get tired too. I have a life of my own—friends, hobbies, evenings at the theatre, baking Victoria sponges. Retirement finally gave me the chance to do things I’d never allowed myself before. I take dance lessons, book weekend getaways, watch old Hitchcock films. I’m alive. And I want to live.
But my eldest, especially, acts as if he doesn’t see it. Last week, he dropped his boy round without so much as a “Are you free?”
*Mum, you’re home anyway. Just watch him for a couple of hours.*
I was about to meet an old friend after six months apart. Stood there clutching my tea, watching him zip his coat and dash off to some *urgent meeting*. No apology. No thought. Just left the kid like a parcel at the post office.
Don’t get me wrong—I love my grandkids. Truly. They’re sweet, funny, always smelling of biscuits and baby shampoo. But I’m not their on-call nanny. Not obliged to cancel my plans, rearrange my days, devote every breath to them.
Later that evening, scrambling to figure out supper for the boy, my youngest called. They’re expecting. Of course I cried—happy tears. But dread twisted in my chest. So now it’ll be double the demands? A roster—Mondays with one, Tuesdays with the other?
After the call, I sat on the sofa and wondered: Is this it? Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I’ve stopped living. Why should I become a free babysitter just because it suits them?
I told my eldest I’d help this once, but next time, he’d need to ask properly. That I wasn’t his *obligation*. He called me selfish. But since when is wanting your own life selfish?
Twenty-five years I worked without a holiday. Paid bills, scrimped on coats so they had textbooks. I’d do it again—but now I want to wake up to coffee and the paper, not nappies and porridge. I want to be a grandmother, not a servant.
Times have changed. Women are braver now, honest about what they need—rest, space, choices. I’ll help, but *help* doesn’t mean “do it all for me.” It means being there when I *choose* to be, not out of some duty.
If you can’t handle parenting, maybe think twice before having kids. I didn’t raise my sons to be helpless. I raised them to take responsibility.
So yes, I’ll be a grandmother. On weekends, when it suits *me*. When I offer. Never at my own expense.
And you know what? I don’t feel guilty. For the first time in years—I feel like I’m exactly where I should be.
