I’ve Become a Hostage to My Own Grandchildren
My entire life has been devoted to my children. When my husband left me during our younger years, all the responsibility for our two daughters fell squarely on my shoulders. They were my light, my breath, the reason I got up every morning. To feed, clothe, and take care of them, I juggled two jobs, barely slept, and lived in an endless cycle between home, school, stores, and doctor’s offices. My mom was my sole support—she looked after the girls while I was on shifts, supervised their homework, and taught them about life. As for me, I remember little from those years apart from the exhaustion, constant hustle, and an eerie silence in my soul.
Then my parents fell ill—one after the other. I was running back and forth between home, hospitals, and work, feeling drained, but I never gave up. Now that I’m over sixty, I’ve finally reached retirement. You’d think I’d be rejoicing—I raised them, got them on their feet, ensured they were educated, and let them live their own lives. Both daughters are married, each has a child, and the younger one even has two.
When my grandchildren were born, I was excited to offer my help. Having been a single mother myself, I understood the challenges of raising young ones. I genuinely love spending time with them—they are so warm, so genuine. Their laughter seems to carry away the years, making me feel younger. I’m joyful being with them. But at some point, I realized I was no longer just a grandma—I had become a full-time nanny. Only without pay or days off.
My daughters focus on their careers, visit salons, meet friends, and travel with their husbands. Meanwhile, I’m perpetually at home, caring for one or sometimes all three kids. It’s not only during the weekdays but also on holidays. I haven’t spent a New Year’s Eve in the quiet or even with a book in the last five years. I’m constantly watching over them—feeding, changing, soothing them, wiping noses, and picking up toys. My grandchildren are wonderful, but I’m not as strong as I used to be. I’m tired.
I don’t want to sound like an ungrateful mother or grandmother. I’m still willing to help. But it should be a mutual agreement, not a given. Why doesn’t anyone ask, “Mum, how are you feeling? Would you like the grandchildren over the weekend, or perhaps you’d prefer to relax, meet friends, or go to the theatre?”
Yes, I dream of the theatre. Of a quiet walk in the park, where I’m not chasing after a little one whose shoelace has come undone again, but just strolling and breathing. I’ve long dreamed of going to the countryside. It might sound naive, but I’ve always wanted to see the Lake District in spring—when the hills are in bloom, when the air is crisp and clear. I browse online photos and think, “Will I indeed pass away without ever stepping out of these four walls filled with children’s cries and oatmeal?”
I hesitate to bring this up with my daughters. I’m afraid of causing offense, of upsetting the delicate balance. After all, they might retort, “You offered, didn’t you?” Yes, I did. But not to become a round-the-clock caregiver.
I don’t want my grandchildren growing up thinking their grandma is always there yet invisible. It’s crucial they know that grandma has her own life, dreams, and interests.
I’m not asking for much. I just want my daughters to understand I’m not perpetual motion. That love for my grandchildren doesn’t mean giving up on myself entirely. That I have a right to personal time.
Perhaps someone reading these words will see their own mother in them. Perhaps before leaving their child with grandma “for just a bit,” they will pause and ask: “And you, Mum, what are your dreams?”
