There is a kind of joy I was not expecting. It is not loud or dramatic. It arrives in small moments and then stays. I feel it when he sits on my lap. When he leans into me without hesitation. When I catch the warm, familiar smell of his skin, something in me settles. I am no longer the one responsible for everything, and he is well loved by his parents, who take full responsibility for his well-being.
I am his grandmother. And, if I am honest, I am a ‘baad’ grandma. I’m not careless or neglectful. But indulgent. I say yes more than I probably should. I buy the plastic rubbish I once refused his father. I let him watch cartoons I might have questioned. I give him his favourite foods whenever he asks without overthinking it.
I follow his delight
From the outside, it might look like I have relaxed my standards. I have become less disciplined. But that is not what it feels like from the inside. It feels like something has softened.
When I was a mother, I loved my child fiercely. That has never been in question. But the conditions I was parenting in were far from stable. There was an unpredictability and a fear I had to manage. An underlying sense that things could shift quickly.
That I had to stay alert.
I was always holding more than just my child
I was holding the situation. That changes how you parent, whether you realise it at the time or not. You become vigilant. You anticipate. You manage risk. You try to create safety, even when the ground underneath you feels insecure. There is less space to simply enjoy.
Less room to just be with your child without part of your attention scanning for what might go wrong and dealing with the sense of dread and overwhelm that came with an unreliable partner. I did not have the luxury of ease.
Now, with my grandson, the conditions are different. I am not carrying the whole structure. I am not the only one responsible for his well-being. The stakes are still meaningful, but they are not the same. And because of that, something in me has changed. I can be with him without that background tension. I can respond without the same pressure. I can be present in a way that feels simpler.
This is where the ‘baad’ grandma in me comes forward
The one who offers single-estate drinking chocolate or gives him chicken satay on bamboo sticks whilst he’s in the bath. The one who bends the routine with more than three books at bedtime. The one who is more interested in his enjoyment than in getting everything right. It is easy to call this indulgence.
But it feels closer to something else. It feels like a repair. By allowing myself to be fully present, I am also giving myself an experience I could not have before. An experience where love is not constantly interwoven with concern. Where the connection is not interrupted by the need to provide the only wage. Where I can actually feel what is happening, rather than staying on high alert one step ahead of it.
There are moments that catch me off guard. I find myself calling him by my son’s name. Not often and not every time. It happens without thinking. For a second, I am back there. Decades ago. Much younger and more vital. Holding the hand of my own child, who I could carry for miles and who fitted within my buttoned-up coat.
Time collapses in that instant
Feeling that same fierce attachment, that same sense that this small person is my everything. For a split second, it can feel disorienting. It makes me physically reel in awe at the depth of love. It reminds me that the bond never went away. It was layered with responsibility, extraordinary strain, and the hard practicalities of life. But it stayed true.
When I slip and use the wrong name, what I am really touching is that original connection. And now, I am meeting it again under different, easier conditions. I can feel it without the same level of pressure. Without the same familiar fight or flight. There is more space around it. I can enjoy it. That changes everything and feels revolutionary.
I can sense that my nervous system is registering this difference, even if I do not put it into words in the moment. The earlier parenting experience, shaped by instability, is now paired with a different internal state. Calmer. More settled. More at ease.
It does not erase what was difficult
But it adds something new. It makes the picture more complete. This is why the unexpected joy can feel so strong. It is not only about the boy. It is about me as well. About being able to experience something that was always there, but not always fully accessible.
The indulgence is part of this.
I am not only giving him what he wants. I am allowing myself to relate without the same restrictions. I am letting go of the constant need to stand guard, to be on duty.
I can be playful. Spontaneous. Fully present.
Of course, I am aware of the balance. I am not trying to override his parents or create confusion. I understand that routines and boundaries matter. But I also know that my role is different. I do not need to replicate what they do with the same level of commitment.
In fact, the value I bring is partly in that difference. I offer him a less structured version of adult connection. A place where he can simply be enjoyed.
And in doing that, I am also allowing myself to be someone slightly different. Not only the mother, but also the father had to cope. But the grandmother who gets to enjoy.
At times, a deep sadness sits alongside this
A recognition that my own experience of mothering was not as supported or as steady as I would have wanted for my son. I did not always have the conditions that would have allowed for this level of ease.
I do not dwell on it, but I do notice it. And when I allow that feeling to be there, it does not take away from what I have now. It deepens it. Because I can appreciate the difference without pretending the past was something it was not.
I can hold both. The effort I made then. Doing the best I could back then, and the ease I feel now.
I am not trying to use him to fix anything. That would not be fair to him. But I can feel that something in me is healing because of this relationship. Something is settling and integrating. The past is still part of me, but it is no longer the only reference point.
There is more space. More range. Being a ‘baad’ grandma, then, is not about being irresponsible.
It is about relating differently. Less driven by mere coping. More guided by what is actually happening in front of me.
A child laughing. Reaching for me. Trusting me completely in that moment. These are small things. But they accumulate. They create a different internal experience. One where the connection feels authentic. More reliable. And in that, something shifts. I am not only remembering who I was. I am experiencing something new. And somewhere between those two, I feel more whole, and I breathe more deeply.
If I pause and reflect, I can see that what I allow myself now is not indulgence for its own sake. It is a way of being that I could not access before, and it is gently changing how I understand my own story of motherhood.
