I have become a prisoner of my own grandchildren.
My entire life has been dedicated to my children. When my husband left me in my younger years, I was left with the responsibility of caring for our two daughters. They were my light, my breath, the reason I got up every morning. To feed, clothe, and educate them, I juggled two jobs, hardly slept, and lived in a constant race between home, school, shops, and hospitals. My mum was my only support. She looked after the girls while I was at work, oversaw their homework, and taught them life lessons. As for me… I don’t remember much from those years, apart from the exhaustion, endless chaos, and silence within my own soul.
Then my parents fell ill, one after another. I dashed between home, the hospitals, and work, pushing through my exhaustion without giving up. Now, having reached my sixties, I’m finally retired. I should be rejoicing—I’ve raised my children, set them up for life, educated them, and let them go on their own journeys. Both daughters are married, and each has a child, while the younger one has two.
When my grandchildren arrived, I gladly offered my help. As someone who had walked the path of a single mother, I felt I understood the challenges of raising little ones. I truly enjoy spending time with them—they’re so warm, so genuine. Their laughter seems to turn back time and makes me feel younger. I’m happy being with them. But at some point, I realised: I’m no longer just a grandmother—I’m a full-time nanny. Without pay or days off.
My daughters are building their careers, visiting salons, meeting friends, and travelling with their husbands. Meanwhile, I’m always at home, caring for one or sometimes three children at once. Not just on weekdays, but during holidays too. I haven’t spent a single New Year’s Eve in peace or even with a book in the past five years. I’m always on duty—feeding, changing, rocking to sleep, wiping noses, and picking up toys. The grandchildren are wonderful, but my energy isn’t what it used to be. I’m tired.
I don’t want to sound like an ungrateful mother or grandmother. I still want to help. But it should be by mutual agreement, not taken for granted. Why doesn’t anyone ask, “Mum, how are you feeling? Would you like the grandchildren this weekend, or would you prefer to rest, meet up with friends, or go to the theatre?”
Yes, I dream about the theatre. A quiet walk in the park where I’m not chasing after a toddler with untied shoelaces, just walking and breathing. I’ve long dreamt of visiting the mountains. It might sound naive, but I’ve always wanted to see the Lake District in the spring—when the mountains bloom, and the air is still fresh and clear. I look at photos online and think, “Will I really leave this world without ever stepping out of these four walls filled with the cries of children and baby food?”
I’m afraid to bring this up with my daughters. Afraid of hurting them, of disrupting the fragile harmony. They might say, “You offered this yourself.” Yes, I did. But not to become a 24/7 caregiver.
I don’t want my grandchildren to grow up thinking their grandma is someone who’s always there but goes unnoticed. It’s important to me that they know their grandma also has a life, dreams, and interests.
I’m not asking for much. I hope my girls understand that I’m not a perpetual motion machine. That loving my grandchildren doesn’t mean completely abandoning myself. That I have the right to personal time.
Maybe someone will read my words and recognise their own mum in them. Perhaps, before leaving a child with grandma “for a few hours,” you might ask, “Mum, what do you…?”
