When my daughter dropped off her twins one Saturday morning without asking, I stood frozen in my robe, coffee in hand. “I’ll be back tonight!” she chirped, already halfway to her car. No warning, no request—just the assumption that I’d watch them.
I love my grandkids deeply, but I raised my children. I’m 63, semi-retired, and finally rediscovering my time—gardening, book clubs, peace. I’m not a free nanny on demand.
That night, when she came back, I sat her down. “I’ll gladly help when asked—but I won’t be taken for granted.”
She was shocked, maybe even hurt. But setting boundaries doesn’t mean I love them less. It means I respect myself, and I’m teaching her to do the same. Being a grandma is a joy—not a job.
