“Oh, Mum, don’t exaggerate—how much could little Georgie possibly eat? He’s only six! I send you pounds now and then—surely that’s enough for him and even for you and Dad,” my daughter said when I tried to explain how hard it’s become for us to care for her son. This is the story of how my husband and I became “full-time grandparents” to our grandson, and why it leaves me with such mixed feelings.
Georgie in Our Home
Our daughter, Emily, has lived in Italy for five years. She left to find work when Georgie was just a year old. At first, she planned to earn quick money and come back, but life had other plans—she landed a good job, married an Italian man, and decided to stay. Georgie stayed with us because she thought he’d be better off in a quiet English village than in a foreign country.
My husband, William, and I didn’t mind. Georgie’s our only grandchild, and we adore him. He’s cheerful, curious, a little ray of sunshine. But he’s six now—in nursery, soon starting school—and looking after him is getting harder. We’re not as young as we once were—I’m 62, William’s 65. We’ve got our own aches, the garden, chores. And Georgie’s lively—needs watching like a hawk.
Financial Help and Reality
Emily sends money now and then—£100 or £200 when she can. She thinks it’s enough to cover Georgie’s needs and even ours. But she doesn’t see how fast it goes. Nursery fees, clothes, shoes, football club, groceries—it all adds up. And Georgie catches every cold going—medicine, doctor visits. We top it up from our pensions, but it’s a strain.
I tried explaining to Emily how tough it is, physically and financially. “Mum, honestly, how much could a six-year-old eat?” she said. “I’m sending you money—it should be plenty.” I started to say it wasn’t just about food, but time and energy too, but she brushed it off: “You’re his grandparents—this should be a joy. I’m working hard here to make things better for all of us.”
Our Feelings and Doubts
I don’t mean to complain, but sometimes it feels like William and I aren’t just grandparents—we’re Georgie’s parents. We take him to nursery, check his schoolwork, nurse him when he’s ill, comfort him when he misses his mum. Emily visits once a year, and though Georgie’s thrilled to see her, he calls us “home” now. It breaks my heart—I want him with his mother, but I know she can’t take him to Italy—work, flats, all of it too complicated.
