“Why have children if you don’t have time for them now?”—I’m not going to babysit my grandchildren and sacrifice my life.
I’ve had enough of staying quiet. Enough of pretending everything’s fine—that I’m the sweet, patient, ever-doting grandmother who lives only to look after her grandkids and cook them soup. But the truth is, I can’t do it anymore. I’m sixty. Yes, I’m retired. But does that mean my life must revolve around someone else’s children?
I say “someone else’s” deliberately. Because grandchildren aren’t my children. I’ve already walked that path once. I raised two sons. Gave them everything—my energy, my nerves, my health, my money. Nursed them through fevers, tantrums, sleepless nights. Back then, I never once thought to pass them off to my mother or a neighbour—I handled it all myself. Because that’s how it should be. Because it was my choice to have them, raise them, pour myself into them.
Now they’re grown. They’ve got families, jobs, their own lives. And they take it for granted that I’ll be on standby. Babysit while they get their nails done. Pick the kids up from nursery when they fancy a spontaneous cinema trip. Take them to the doctor because they’re working. Or sometimes, just because they’re tired. And what about me?
I get tired too. I have a life too. Friends, routines, hobbies, plans, trips. After retiring, I finally started doing things I’d never allowed myself before—dancing classes, theatre visits, baking Victoria sponges, watching French films. I’m alive. I want to live.
But my children, especially the eldest, seem blind to it. The other day, he just dropped my grandson off without even asking:
“Mum, you’re home anyway. Watch him for a couple of hours.”
I was supposed to visit my best mate. We hadn’t seen each other in six months. I stood there, clutching my coffee mug, watching him zip up his coat and dart off for some “urgent meeting.” No apology. No “are you free?” Just left the kid like a bag at left luggage.
I don’t hate my grandchildren. I love them, truly. They’re sweet, funny, smell of biscuits and baby shampoo. But I’m not obliged to look after them every time someone fancies a break. Not obliged to cancel my plans. Not obliged to give up my whole life.
That evening, as I scrambled to figure out what to feed my grandson, my youngest son called. Said they were expecting a baby. I cried, happy tears—but dread flickered inside. So now I’d be tugged from both sides? One with the first grandchild, the other with the second? What then—live by a rota? Mondays and Thursdays for one, Tuesdays and Fridays for the other?
After the call, I sat on the sofa and thought: Is this really my fate now? Retirement isn’t the end—it’s another 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 from now on, it’s by arrangement. That I’m not a babysitter on demand. That I have my own life. He got upset. Called me selfish. But is it selfish to want to live for myself?
I worked twenty-five years without proper holidays. Raised kids, paid mortgages, skipped new boots so they’d have schoolbooks. I don’t regret it—but now I want to breathe. To watch sunrises with coffee and a book, not porridge and nappies. To be a grandmother, not a maid.
Times have changed. Women are braver, franker. We’ve earned rest, boundaries, desires. I’ll help—but helping doesn’t mean “do it all for me.” It means being there when I choose, not because someone calls it “duty.”
If you can’t handle raising a child—maybe think why you had one. I didn’t birth replacements. I raised people who should take responsibility for their choices.
So yes, I’ll be a grandmother. On weekends, when I’m free. 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 finally where I belong.
