Tina (64): “I lovingly take care of my granddaughters - but all the rules my daughter sets make me desperate”

The Wednesday I look forward to

Every week, on Wednesday, I walk down the driveway with a smile towards my daughter Rachel. Bart, my husband, is already in the car with the child seats ready. We take the girls to school, Reva (7) and Loua (5). They run towards me with open arms, shouting “grandma!” and it feels as if I'm suddenly ten years younger. They are the highlights of my week. Bart always says: “You glow when you see them.” And he's right. I look at those little faces, those tiny backpacks, and I feel nothing but gratitude that I get to see them grow every week.

Yet lately I've noticed something is amiss. Not in my heart, but in my space to be a grandmother. No matter what I do, no matter how good my intentions, it increasingly feels as though I'm walking through a narrow tunnel with rules plastered on the walls. Rules set by my daughter. And they're getting tighter by the month.

Caring babysitting, with a script

Rachel is exactly as she was as a child: organized, meticulous, forward-thinking. Where I used to sometimes forget the gym bag, she had a weekly schedule with color codes at the age of eight. It was endearing back then. Now, as a mother, she still is, but it sometimes feels suffocating.

Every Wednesday, there's an A4 sheet ready on the countertop. “Wednesday's Schedule,” it reads at the top, with times listed next to it.

14:15 – fruit moment (apple or pear, no grapes due to sugar)

14:30 – craft (colored pencils, no markers indoors)

15:30 – outside (nearby)

16:15 – Change Reva into dance clothes

16:30 – departure for dance class

17:15 – Watch TV (max 20 minutes)

18:00 – dinner (as per menu: whole grain wraps with hummus and avocado)

There's even a note added recently: “Attention: Loua may sometimes ask for a popsicle, which is not allowed during the week.”

I read it for the first time and thought it was a joke. But it was there every week again.

Bart then says, “Oh, she means well.” And I know that. Rachel wants structure. She wants peace for her children. But it feels like that peace only works if I also stand still. And I can't always do that.

Little girls with big smiles

When I'm alone with Reva and Loua, without Rachel, I feel more free. We draw, we sing, we perform little plays with old scarves. They laugh at my silly voices and I hear myself being the mother I once was. Then suddenly Loua says, “Grandma, can we go to the big playground?”

The playground is a five-minute walk away, with swings and sand and a little shop where they sell soft-serve ice cream. “No, darling,” I say softly, “we can't do that today.” And I see it in their eyes, that little incomprehension children have when rules no longer seem to have any logic.

Reva sighs then: “But the weather is so nice, grandma. Just for a bit?”

I smile, but feel the sting behind my eyes. “Mom has a different schedule for today,” I say.

It does something to me, that I'm the one who has to say no, while deep down I really want to shout yes.

The forbidden chocolate sprinkles

Eating is a chapter in itself.

Rachel raised the children with a healthy eating plan that many a dietitian would be proud of. All organic, no sugar, no E-numbers, bread only with coconut oil, avocado, or hummus. No cheese or sausage, no jam, no chocolate sprinkles.

The first time I opened a lunchbox and it read “avocado only – do not mash”, I thought I had misunderstood. But no, that was literally what it said. “Do not mash.”

Loua recently said while spreading bread: “Grandma, can you bring some chocolate sprinkles next time? The ones from you with the yellow packaging.”

I laughed, but at the same time felt a knot in my stomach. “Mom wants you to eat different things, darling.”

“But mom isn't here right now,” she said softly.

I heard myself saying: “No, but I do.” And that was the moment I realized: I don't want to become the sneaky grandma.

Ice creams in the sun

Last week it was 26 degrees. The girls were playing in the garden with their little shovels and the grass smelled like summer. Bart came up with an idea: “Shall we drive by the ice cream parlor? One scoop, that can't hurt, right?”

I wanted to say yes right away. But I heard Rachel's voice in my head: “No ice cream during the week.”

“Perhaps not smart,” I said hesitantly.

“Oh come on,” said Bart, “what's the harm in one ice cream?”

So we went after all. We bought three cones and sat on a bench in the sun. Loua had vanilla, Reva strawberry. They laughed, with ice cream on their noses. And I thought: this is exactly what childhood should be like.

But that evening I received a message from Rachel.

“Did you give some ice cream? Reva mentioned something about strawberry.”

I read the message three times.

I wrote back: “Yes, it was so warm. Enjoyed it for a moment. An exception."

She replied within ten seconds: “Mom, this is not what we agreed upon. That's not how it works.”

I felt as if I had done something wrong.

A house full of love, but with rules

I know that Rachel loves her children. I don't doubt that for a second. She is a caring, involved mother. Everything she does is driven by love and fear at the same time, love to keep them healthy, fear that they lack something.

But sometimes it seems like there's no room for fun without conditions. The TV is only allowed on Wednesdays, extra schoolwork must be completed before they can draw, the weekend has a set ritual: dance on Saturday, family visits on Sunday. When Reva says on Wednesday afternoon, 'Grandma, shall we do some crafting with markers?' I hear myself saying: 'Let's take pencils.' Because I know: markers are not allowed indoors.

Bart frowns at times and says softly, "They should still be allowed to be somewhat of a child, right?"

And I think: yes. They should also just be grandma's kids. Children who can breathe without rules for a while.

The silence after the conversation

I tried to discuss it. Carefully, with tea and calm.

“Rach,” I said, “I want to talk about Wednesday. Sometimes it feels to me like I have very little say. As if I'm mostly just executing tasks.”

She looked at me, silent for a moment, and then said: “Mom, I really appreciate your help. But this is my house, my children, my rules.”

Kort. Zakelijk.

I felt the coldness in those words. Not meant to hurt, but harsh in the echo.

“Of course,” I said. “I understand.” And I smiled, because that's easier than crying.

That evening, Bart said: “You tried. That's all you can do.”

But I know it stings me. Not because I want to be right, but because I no longer seem to be allowed to be myself in something that once came naturally: being careful with love and common sense.

Where love and letting go meet each other

Every Wednesday at I'm there again. I could say, “I'm quitting.” But I don't want to. I want to see the girls, hear their stories, admire their drawings. I want to be there for the little things, the smile, the sticky hands, the wet hugs.

I tell myself that I'm doing it for them, not for Rachel. That I can be flexible, that I can put the rules aside for a moment. But each week it grates a little more. Because where is the line between going with the flow and losing yourself?

Sometimes I think: maybe this is part of these times. Everything controlled, measured, tested. No more room for intuition. While that's exactly what distinguishes a grandmother from a babysitter: feeling.

I miss that. The freedom to just think: “Today is nice weather, let's do something fun.”

I don't want to rebel, I want to live with my granddaughters.

The generation that grew up differently

I grew up in a time when children were allowed to get dirty, when bread with peanut butter and chocolate sprinkles was a treat. Where an afternoon of playing outside wasn't scheduled.

Rachel grew up in a different world: structured, safe, purposeful. And that's good, until it suffocates.

I understand her need for control. The world seems fuller, busier, less safe. But I wonder: what are we teaching our children if we spoon-feed them everything?

Sometimes I think that my granddaughters will later say: “Grandma made us laugh. Grandma gave us space.” And that's what I hope for. Because that's the gift I want to give them, not a tight schedule, but memories that stick.

And meanwhile, I practice patience. In the hope that Rachel will one day realize that love cannot be measured in schedules.

What I would like to say

Dear Rachel, I understand that you protect your children. I see how hard you work to give them a good life. But believe me: a grandma getting an ice cream doesn't take anything away. She contributes to their happiness.

I am not your opposite. I am your extension, a different note, the same melody.

Let me keep some space to be a grandmother, with crumbs on the table and sprinkles on the bread. Let me keep their world a bit looser, without you having to fear that everything falls apart.

We both have love as a compass, we just sail at a different pace.

TINEKE

How do you handle that as a grandparent or parent? To what extent do you have the freedom to shape the babysitting moment yourself? And to all the moms and dads: do you let grandma and grandpa have their own way, or do you prefer to stick to clear rules?