If you want to understand how to be a good grandparent, it helps to start at the beginning – not with your grandchildren, but with your own grandparents.
Because that’s where the truth sits.
Not in parenting books or family WhatsApp chats or the increasingly elaborate business of multigenerational holidays. No, it’s in the quiet, half-faded memories of childhood – the ones that have somehow stuck.
For me, it was Mimi.
Mimi made a trifle that could have solved most of the world’s problems. She spoke loudly – gloriously loudly – because she was deaf. And she cared. Intensely. Unapologetically. Every time my name appeared in the local paper for some minor sporting achievement, she clipped it out and kept it. Filed it. Remembered it.
I mattered to her.
The other three grandparents? Perfectly decent people, I’m sure. But in the grand museum of memory, they occupy a much smaller room. I was simply … there.
And that, I suspect, is the whole point.
Being a grandparent in 2026 is a far more complicated job than it used to be.
Once upon a time, it was tea, biscuits and the occasional overnight stay. Now it can feel like a logistical operation involving school pickups, streaming passwords, iPads, extracurricular schedules and, increasingly, international travel.
There is, too, a creeping sense that grandparenting has become … transactional.
Who’s paying for the cruise?
Who’s funding the private school fees?
Who’s picking up the bill for Christmas?
It’s easy to start thinking that being a “good” grandparent is about what you can provide financially.
But if Mimi taught me anything, it’s that this is almost entirely wrong.
Of course, money can make life easier. No one is pretending otherwise.
A contribution to school fees, a family holiday, even the occasional generous gift – these things are appreciated. They can create opportunities and shared experiences that might not otherwise exist.
But they are not what children remember.
No adult sits around reminiscing about their grandmother’s tax-efficient wealth distribution strategy. They remember the trifle. The laughter. The feeling of being noticed.
If there is a single defining trait of a good grandparent, it is this: interest. Not polite interest. Not distracted, half-listening interest. But real, engaged, slightly over-the-top curiosity about a child’s life.
What are they into?
Who are their friends?
What did they do at school today – really?
Mimi didn’t just know I played sport. She followed it. Documented it. Celebrated it as if I were a minor national hero. That kind of attention is powerful. It tells a child: you matter enough for me to notice the details. And in a world where everyone is busy – parents working, kids scheduled within an inch of their lives – that kind of attention is increasingly rare.
Modern grandparenting can sometimes drift into “event-based” territory. Big holidays. Big days out. Big gestures.
But children don’t build relationships in bursts of spectacle. They build them in small, repeated moments.
Sitting at the kitchen table
Walking to the shops
Listening (properly listening) to a rambling story
Time, in this sense, isn’t about quantity alone. It’s about consistency.
Being there. Again and again.
One of the trickier parts of being a grandparent today is navigating boundaries. Parenting styles have changed. Rules have changed. Even food has changed.
There is a temptation – sometimes overwhelming – to step in. To correct. To say, “Well, in my day …”
Resist it.
A good grandparent understands that their role is not to parent again, but to support. To be a safe harbour rather than a second captain of the ship. That doesn’t mean being passive. It means being reliably present without being intrusive.
Here’s the slightly uncomfortable truth: you don’t need to be extraordinary to be a great grandparent. You don’t need to organise cruises or fund lifestyles or create Instagram-worthy moments. You just need to show up.
Consistently. Warmly. With interest.
Because what children remember isn’t the scale of what you did – it’s the feeling of how you made them feel. Seen. Heard. Valued.
Years later, I don’t remember every detail of those afternoons. But I remember her voice – loud and joyful. I remember the trifle. I remember the clippings. And, most of all, I remember that she cared.
Which is, in the end, the entire job description.
Not money. Not grand gestures. Not perfection.
Just that.
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