“Why did they have children if they don’t have time for them now?”—I refuse to spend my days babysitting my grandchildren and sacrificing my own life.
I’ve had enough of pretending. Enough of acting like the sweet, endlessly patient grandmother who lives only to mind the little ones and cook them soup. The truth is, I can’t do it anymore. I’m sixty. Yes, I’m retired. But does that mean my life must revolve solely around someone else’s children?
I say *someone else’s* deliberately. These grandchildren aren’t mine. I’ve already walked this path once—raising two sons, pouring everything into them: my energy, my nerves, my health, my savings. I nursed them through illnesses, tantrums, fevers in the middle of the night. And back then, it never crossed my mind to hand them off to a grandmother or a neighbor. I carried it all myself. Because that’s what you do. Because I chose to have them, raise them, invest in them.
Now my sons are grown. They have families, careers, their own lives. And they take it for granted that I’ll always be on standby—to babysit when they fancy a spa day, collect them from nursery when they impulsively decide to catch a film, or take them to the doctor while they’re at work. Sometimes, just because they’re *tired*.
What about me?
I get tired too. I have a life. Friends, routines, hobbies, appointments, trips. Since retiring, I’ve finally started doing things I never allowed myself before—ballroom dancing, theatre visits, baking Victoria sponges in the evening while watching French films. I’m alive. I want to *live*.
But my children, especially my eldest, seem blind to that. The other day, he simply dropped off my grandson without even asking:
*Mum, you’re home anyway. Watch him for a couple of hours.*
I was about to visit a friend I hadn’t seen in months. Stunned, I stood there clutching my coffee mug as he zipped up his coat and dashed off for some *urgent errand*. No apology. No checking if I was free. Just left the boy like a parcel at the post office.
I don’t dislike my grandchildren. I love them. Truly. They’re sweet, funny, smelling of biscuits and baby shampoo. But I shouldn’t have to care for them whenever it suits someone else. Cancel my plans. Dedicate my entire life to them.
That evening, as I scrambled to figure out what to feed him, my younger son called. He announced they’re expecting a baby. Of course, I cried—happy tears. But dread stirred inside. Would they both start tugging at me now? One with the first grandchild, the other with the second? Would I need a *rota*—Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays with one, Tuesdays and Thursdays with the other?
After the call, I sank onto the sofa, lost in thought. Is this really my fate now? Retirement isn’t the end—it’s another chapter. Why must I become a free babysitter just because my children find it convenient?
I told my eldest I’d help *this time*, but in future, it’s by arrangement only. That I’m not a nanny. Not an obligation. That I have my own life. He got offended. Called me selfish. But is it selfishness to want to live for myself?
I worked twenty-five years without a holiday. Raised children, paid mortgages, skipped new boots so they could have textbooks. I don’t regret it—but now I want to breathe. To greet dawn with coffee and a book, not porridge and nappies. To be a grandmother, not a maid.
Times have changed. Women are braver, more honest. We’ve earned the right to rest, to boundaries, to our own desires. I’ll help—but helping doesn’t mean *doing it all*. It means being there when my heart says yes, not because someone calls it *duty*.
If you can’t handle raising a child—maybe think twice before having one. I didn’t give birth to stand-ins. I raised individuals who should take responsibility for their choices.
So yes, I’ll be a grandmother. On weekends, when I have time. 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 belong.
