Every grandmother loves spending quality time with their grandkids during the holidays.
But when my six-year-old started calling me names, I put a plan in motion that helped me discover that not everyone in your life will appreciate you.
Every holiday, I look forward to having Brittany, my six-year-old granddaughter, stay with me for the winter break.
I was excited about our usual traditions: baking cookies, watching movies, and spoiling her with gifts.
But last year changed everything.
The week before her arrival, I transformed my house into a winter wonderland.
Also, my kitchen counters disappeared under bags of flour, sugar, and chocolate chips for her favorite Christmas cookies.
I really went all out to make it special for her.
Anyway, when I pulled up to my son, Todd, and his wife Rachel’s house to pick her up, Brittany burst through the front door with her PAW Patrol backpack bouncing behind her. Her pink winter coat was only half-zipped, and one of her boots was untied.
“Nanny!” she squealed, launching herself into my arms. Her hair smelled like strawberry shampoo, and she squeezed my neck so tight I could barely breathe.
“Did you get the special hot chocolate? The one with the little marshmallows?”
“Of course, I did, sweetheart. And maybe some other surprises too.” I winked at her while fixing her coat and boot.
Rachel appeared in the doorway, phone in hand.
“Her pajamas are in the front pocket,” she said without looking up. “And try not to give her too much sugar this time. Last visit, she was bouncing off the walls for days after.”
I gave Rachel a reassuring smile and ushered Brittany to my car.
That first night, Brittany refused to sleep in the guest room.
“Please, Nanny? I want to see the Christmas tree lights!” She looked up at me with those big brown eyes, clutching her favorite stuffed dog. “Chase wants to see them too!”
I wasn’t sure about a child sleeping in the living room, but I figured one time wouldn’t hurt.
So, I helped her make a nest of blankets on the couch, right where she could see the tree.
While I cooked dinner, she sprawled out with her coloring books, humming along to the Christmas music playing softly in the background.
“Hey, old lady,” she called out suddenly, giggling. “Can I have some juice?”
I nearly dropped the spatula. “What did you say, honey?”
“Old lady!” she repeated, giggling harder.
“Can I have apple juice?”
I gave her the juice and brushed off her words… at first. I knew kids pick up all sorts of things at school.
But over the next few days, things got worse. The playful “old lady” turned into “wrinkly hag” and other names that made my stomach twist.
These weren’t things children should say, but Brittany never said them maliciously.
I think she thought they were just nicknames, but I had to find out for sure.
One afternoon, while Brittany was coloring again, I pulled up a chair beside her. “Brit, honey, where did you learn to call me ‘old lady’ and ‘ha-hag’?” I stuttered. “Was it at kindergarten?
Did you hear the other kids say them to others?”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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