*”Why have children if you don’t have time to raise them?” — I won’t sacrifice my life just to babysit my grandchildren.*
I’ve had enough of pretending. Enough of acting like everything’s fine—like I’m some sweet, patient grandmother with nothing better to do than mind the kids and stir soups. But the truth is, I can’t keep this up. I’m sixty. Yes, I’m retired. Does that mean my whole world should revolve around someone else’s children?
And I say *someone else’s* for a reason. Because they’re not mine. I’ve already done my time. I raised two sons—poured everything into them: energy, nerves, health, money. Nursed them through fevers, tantrums, sleepless nights. Back then, I never once thought to palm them off on my mum or a neighbour. I carried it all myself. Because it was the right thing to do. Because I chose to bring them into this world, to raise them, to give them everything.
Now they’re grown. Each has a family, a job, their own lives. And they take it for granted that I’ll be on call—babysit while they get their nails done, fetch the kids from nursery when they fancy an impromptu cinema trip, take them to the doctor while they’re at work. Sometimes just because they’re tired. And me?
I get tired too. I have a life. Friends, hobbies, theatre outings, trips. After retiring, I finally started doing things I’d never allowed myself—joined a dance class, took up baking, lost myself in French films. I’m alive. I want to *live*.
But my sons, especially the eldest, don’t seem to see that. Last week, he just dropped my grandson round without even asking:
*”Mum, you’re home anyway. Watch him for a couple hours.”*
I was about to visit my friend Margaret—we hadn’t seen each other in months. I stood there, clutching my tea, watching him zip up his coat and dash off to some *”urgent meeting.”* No apology. No *”Are you free?”* Just left the boy like a parcel at the post office.
I don’t dislike my grandkids. I love them, truly. They’re sweet, funny, smell of biscuits and baby shampoo. But I’m not obliged to mind them whenever someone snaps their fingers. Not obliged to cancel my plans. Not obliged to revolve around them.
Later that evening, while I scrambled to fix the boy some dinner, my youngest rang. They’re expecting a baby. I cried—happy tears, of course. But then came the dread. So now I’ll be tugged in two directions? One grandchild on Mondays, the other on Tuesdays? Do I get a rota?
After the call, I sank onto the sofa. Is this really it? Retirement isn’t the end—it’s a new chapter. Why should I become a free nanny just because my kids find it convenient?
I told my eldest I’d help this once, but next time—we arrange it first. That I’m not on standby. That I have things to do too. He called me selfish. But is it selfish to want a life of your own?
Twenty-five years I worked without a proper holiday. Raised them, paid mortgages, skipped new boots so they’d have schoolbooks. I don’t regret it. But now I want to breathe. To watch the sunrise with a cuppa and a novel, not porridge and nappies. To be a grandmother—not a drudge.
Times have changed. Women are braver now, honest. We’ve a right to rest, to boundaries, to saying *”no.”* I’ll help—but helping isn’t the same as *”do it all for me.”* It’s about choice, not duty.
If you can’t handle raising a child—maybe think twice before having one. I didn’t birth replacements. I raised adults. Capable, responsible adults.
So yes, I’ll be Gran. On weekends, when *I* offer. When it suits *me.* And never at my own expense.
And you know what? I don’t feel guilty. I feel—for the first time in years—like I’m exactly where I should be.
