The Heart of a Grandmother

There are moments in life when you don’t plan — you follow your heart.

“Let’s go to Perth,” I said over my morning cup of tea, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

My husband looked up with that familiar expression that says, What are you up to now?

“What for?” he asked, as though Perth were next door and not across a whole stretch of Australia.

“To see my grandsons,” I said, “and our son — who, last time I checked, are also your boys.”

I gave him the look. He gave me the eye-roll.

Marriage, in one tiny exchange.

He shrugged. “I don’t need to see Steve. I spoke to him yesterday. The kids are fine.”

As if a phone call could ever replace the real thing — the way knees have grown longer, voices have deepened, or how they come back through the door smelling of sunscreen and sea salt.

Men. Honestly.

“Right,” I said, already reaching for my phone. “I’m booking a flight. Any weekend commitments? Bowling?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.” That was all I needed. I booked it.

Of course, in our house, certainty has a short shelf life. Not long after, he wandered back in with sudden remembrance: “Oh — I have a Pennant Bowls game on Saturday. I’m the skip. I can’t let the team down.”

I stared at him for a heartbeat, weighing bowls against grandsons, and chose peace.

I changed the flight.

When your heart is tugged from across the country, you don’t argue with it. You pack.

And just like that, we were going.

They were waiting when we arrived.

My three grandsons, sixteen, fourteen, and eleven — standing taller than I remembered, grinning as though we’d only popped out for bread and milk.

Their hugs had that lovely awkward teenage energy: half too cool, half all-in, and completely dear.

And because boys and waves seem to run on the same clock, the next morning began at 6 a.m.

“Nanny, surf’s up. Do you want to watch us?”

“Of course,” I said — because we had come all this way for exactly this. Their grandfather, meanwhile, was still snoring like a man who believed holidays were for resting.

“Come on then, Nanny — get in the car.” Joshua, all of sixteen, slid into the driver’s seat with the careful confidence of a brand-new P-plater.

He still needed an adult beside him, which meant I was suddenly promoted to Official Passenger, Supervisor, and Calm Voice of Reason. I eyed him sideways and thought, Did he talk me into this trip so that he could drive?

But then he flashed that boyish smile that still carries the little child he used to be. Of course, he didn’t. He loves his Nanny.

On the way, I did what grandmothers do.

“So, Joshua — have you got a girlfriend?”

“Nope,” he said, staring out the window as if girlfriends were a distant continent.

“Alright then,” I said, turning to the fourteen-year-old, about to turn fifteen in 2 days, in the back seat. “Liam — what about you?”

“Seven.”

“Seven?” I nearly choked. “Did I hear you right? Really? All seven?”

He sighed the way teenagers do when adults are adorable but a bit slow.

“No, Nanny. At our age, the boys are always like, ‘Don’t look at my girl — don’t talk to my girl.’ So we made a pact. There are seven of us, and seven girls, and the girls are everyone’s friends. No drama.”

For a moment, I just listened — half amused, half impressed. Maybe it made sense. Maybe it didn’t. But it sounded like my wise Liam trying to build a kinder world in the only way a fourteen-and-363-day-year-old knows how: by making rules with his mates.

And I thought — maybe that’s how it should be.

The surf was up. The boys were out there — paddling, standing, glancing back to see if I was watching.

I was.

I even went into the water, though I’m not a strong swimmer.

But the morning felt brave.

Salt air, sunlight, and that deep knowing — you are exactly where you are meant to be.

The youngest, my number three, slept in peacefully, finally enjoying a quiet room without brothers thundering through it. And because Nanny was supervising the brand-new driver, Mum and Dad actually got to sleep in too.

Sometimes love looks like a lie-in.

Back at the house:

“Food!”

“Nanny, what’s for brekkie?” they called, already opening cupboards as if answers might be hiding behind the cereal.

French toast. Pancakes. Syrup, disappearing faster than I could keep up.

Grampy was up by then too — already out in the garden, happily pottering with a list his son had given him because everyone knows: once that man has his hands in the soil, you won’t get him back inside for love nor money. So his pancakes were delivered to him where he stood, balanced atop the green bin like room service for gardeners.

“What shall we do now?” I asked.

“Sleep,” the older boys groaned.

But Nicky had other plans.

“Nan! Let’s do the crystal dinosaur kit!”

So we did.

Two hours of mixing, measuring, and hoping.

I’m not sure we did it right.

But I know it mattered.

Next — Nicky wanted to ride his bike.

“Coming, Nanny?”

“Sure, my little man.”

We took Shiloh, the little cavoodle, for a walk too — Nicky riding back and forth like a happy comet while I kept pace with the dog. I can walk fast, but not as fast as a boy on a bike with somewhere important to be.

And so the days unfolded — like a bright, busy reel of family life: surfing and sandy towels; mini-golf challenges where everyone suddenly became fiercely competitive; one proper game of golf for Gramps and Steve; runs to footy, basketball, volleyball and swimming lessons; and even a trip to the dentist with Nicky, who was convinced the dentist would pull out every tooth that had ever looked twice at a sweet. Thankfully, nothing was wrong — except his imagination, which was working beautifully.

There were haircuts for the older boys, too, with Nanny doing what Nannies do: offering opinions. “Maybe a taper fade?” I suggested. “Or a textured crop? Not too much off the top.” They humoured me, half laughing, half listening (some suggestions taken, some politely ignored).

“Lunch, Nanny — where do you want to go?”

“Your choice.”

Naturally, we ended up at the burger joint.

“Why burgers, Josh?” I asked. “You work at a burger place after school.”

He shrugged with perfect teenage logic. “‘Cause’ I like burgers.”

Fair enough. Some answers are meant to be simple.

One night, I put my foot down in the gentle way good mums do.

“Chicken curry tonight, Steven. We can’t always have what the boys want.”

“Okay, Mum,” he agreed, still the son even as he’s raising sons of his own.

They ate my chicken curry like it was a special occasion. Liam even announced — loudly, as if it should be recorded- that it was better than Dabba, his favourite Indian restaurant, and better than his favourite butter chicken.

I tucked that compliment away like a treasure.

The days were full, properly full — of fun, food and family. The kind of full that leaves you a little sunburnt and a little sleepy, with a heart that feels stretched in the best way.

I watched them move through their lives: not little boys anymore, not quite men yet, but unmistakably becoming themselves right in front of me.

Saturday was Liam’s birthday.

Burgers again (of course), BBQ sausages, ice-cream cake, and trifle disappearing in minutes.

But what he loved most was his card.

The one where I turned him into a surfing superhero.

This was the card 👉

The boys laughed.

Liam tried not to smile.

But I saw it.

Then I played him the song I’d written for him. I’ll be honest: I’m more writer than musician, and the app did most of the heavy lifting. It sounded a bit tinny, and somehow it was rap, hip-hop and classical all in one — like a musical fruit salad. A mix of styles that probably shouldn’t go together.

Everyone clapped. Polite? Maybe.

I’ve shared it here, just as it was — imperfect, but full of love 👉

(A quiet beginning… the first few seconds are silent — then it finds its voice.)

But Liam came in close, wrapped his arms around me, and gave me the biggest cuddle.

That was the only review I needed.

And then, as it always does —

It was time to go.

The flight home was quiet and nostalgic. I miss my boys when they’re across the country; the distance has a way of making love feel heavier, like you can actually measure it in kilometres.

Grampy missed them too — he said it quietly, almost to himself.

We talked softly about our family, about time, about how lucky we are.

And I thought of Julie, my daughter-in-law, holding it all together, loving my boys every day.

She does it beautifully. Bless her.

It was five days of everything that matters.

Eat. Sleep. Beach. Repeat.

With pancakes, cuppas, crystal dinosaurs — and laughter that lingers long after you leave.

I can’t wait to do it all again — while they still call out, “Nanny.”

Thank you for reading, dear friends ღ.

© Stephanie Roberts