For every grandma who’s ever lost her phone under a pile of toys or wondered how a whole morning could last forever — this one’s for you.
Being a stay-at-home grandma is a deeply rewarding role, but it’s also isolating, physically exhausting, and often difficult.
The experience is defined by a strange elasticity of time. The mornings warp and stretch — it feels like a whole day has passed between 9 and 10 a.m. as we build towers, read the same book, and serve the same snack. Somehow, only minutes have gone by.
Then, when I’m alone, time slips through my fingers. I’ll scroll my phone for a few minutes, and suddenly it’s noon. I can lose an entire hour at Costco, standing in one aisle comparing storage containers I’ll buy but never get around to using.
The Physical Toll and the Toy Ecosystem
The older I get, the more tired I feel. It’s harder to keep up, to pick up, and to tidy up. My knees ache when I crawl on the floor, and my back hurts from lifting little bodies that grow heavier every month.
I used to power through days like this, but now I pace myself. My energy comes in shorter bursts, but my patience runs deeper. I move slower, but I notice more — their sense of humor, their tiny hands, the way time folds itself around these small, ordinary moments.
“Sitting down to play the game they just invented matters far more than having a clean house.”
Finding fun things to do is a daily challenge. I gather supplies for a promising activity, convinced they’ll play for hours. Ten minutes later, they’re done, and I’m left with a sticky, glittery mess of shaving cream or kinetic sand.
Conversely, they’ll find something random — a piece of cardboard with tape stuck to it — and play with it for hours, even days, insisting it comes everywhere with us and rides safely in its own car seat.
The house feels like it’s closing in on me. There are so many toys. So much gear. Paint, markers, water toys, and stuffies pile up and spread out into countless containers (those Costco bins I mentioned earlier become toy boxes I plan to organize later — and never do).
Ground-up fish crackers and fruit snacks embedded in the carpet become normal. “Washable” markers that really aren’t leave permanent scribbles on the walls and furniture.
And then there’s the constant losing of everything I just had — my phone, the remote, shoes, wipes, my water bottle. It’s all here somewhere. It always is.
Navigating Social Life and New Rules
Trying to socialize with other parents of young children is a special kind of awkward. Grandmas are a bit invisible at parks and playgrounds, and when you’re trying to help your grandchild make friends, invisibility is an obstacle.
I push myself. I look for playgroups, go to the park, and show up for storytime, all while trying to quiet the social anxiety that tells me to stay home. I remind myself I’m doing it for their sake. And every once in a while, I meet someone — usually much younger, or another grandma — who becomes a real friend. It’s rare, but it happens.
Socializing with existing friends is tricky. I always have my little sidekick (or sidekicks) with me. Going to lunch means bringing them along or waiting for a “day off.” And on those days, I usually end up trying to catch up on everything else. There isn’t a lot of room for socializing.
The rules are also different now. When my kids were little, we thought nothing of leaving a sleeping child in a locked car while we ran in to pay for gas. We didn’t have drive-through coffee shops on every corner. Now there are entire aisles of monitors, specialized sippy cups, and car seat laws that feel like rocket science.
No bumper pads. No blankets. Tummy time is important — but don’t let them sleep on their tummy. Everything has changed.
Simple Joys and Self-Preservation
In the middle of all this chaos, I try to find small ways to keep myself sane.
My hobbies come and go like Taylor Swift eras — crocheting, audiobooks, and lately, macarons. I taught myself how to make them, and now it’s a full-blown obsession. It’s a finicky craft, and maybe that’s why I love it.
I’m also learning Spanish to keep my brain from turning to applesauce. Most evenings, my husband and I unwind with reality TV, sinking into our pillows with that quiet, shared relief that comes after a long day.
The Benefit of Time in a Less Hurried World
One thing I do have now is time.
I can sit and hold a child while they listen to music for as long as they want. I can let them dig for treasure in the dirt, get dirty, and live unhurried.
Time still crawls for me some days, but I know they’re blessed by this slower rhythm — one my own children didn’t always get to have with me.
The Two-Fold Love
I also have grandchildren who live far away — the ones I don’t get to see nearly as often as I’d like. I watch them grow through photos and FaceTime calls and carry a quiet guilt, knowing I give more of myself to the ones who live close simply because I can.
Traveling alone is difficult for me, so I pour into the ones I’m with every day. When I do see the others, every moment feels like a gift.
It’s hard to reconcile these two kinds of relationships — one lived daily, the other from a distance — but all of them are loved fiercely.
“Two kinds of love: the daily kind, and the distant kind. Both deep, both real.”
A Slow, Messy Miracle
I have the sacred privilege of a front-row seat to watch these children grow up — to see their imaginations and personalities take shape in real time. I can’t think of anything else that would bring me this much joy or contentment.
It’s a sacrifice of my time. The days can be difficult. I dream of doing things I enjoy without kids attached to me. The mornings crawl. The tired sets in. The boredom screams. The muscles ache.
Bluey plays on a loop long after the toys are put away — the soundtrack of a life both exhausting and beautiful.
And yet, when I look back, I see it for what it is — a slow, messy miracle. Worth every long, daunting, beautiful second.
To spend my days in the thick of childhood one more time with the children I love; to be this tired, this needed, and this deeply loved — it’s a gift few people get.
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