Tag Archives: Family

Advice on Being a Grandparent: Don’t Give Advice!

It’s been over a year since Arthur’s birth on July 22, 2025 — and I still smile when I see how my home has morphed into a grandma’s house. A little here, a little there: one purchase, one donated castoff, one lucky discovery at a time. The metal wagon with fat wheels, perfect for storing toys in the garage and then hauling them around the yard, was my best “alley find” yet.

The metamorphosis of what had functioned as our empty-nest house in the city, 40 miles from the small town where my husband and I raised our children, has happened gradually, mirroring the time it has taken me to evolve from anxious grandparent to active, engaged Grandma.

A green Duplo dinosaur adorned with red and blue Duplo blocks — saved from our own boys’ childhoods — has replaced the decorative candle in the living room. The plants on a window ledge in my workout area in the basement have made way for Fisher Price toys that a friend passed along once her grandkids had outgrown them.

Because my husband and I had children in our 30s, which our son did as well, we haven’t had to invest much in baby supplies. At 75 and 69, respectively, we are old for first-time grandparents. Friends and neighbors who have been on this path for years are only too happy to offload old toys, a plastic backyard chair, a baby-sized comforter, even a crib. For the essentials — a highchair and a three-wheeled Thule jogging stroller, my proudest purchase and a delightful way for Arthur and his athletic grandmother to spend time together — Facebook Marketplace has been a godsend.

“Don’t buy any toys without checking with the parents,” said Mary Carlsen, a professor emerita of social work and family studies at St. Olaf College, whom I knew as a “soccer mom” way back when. “Young people have strong opinions about them these days.” That prompted me to lay out the various toys and thick-page books I had accumulated so my son and daughter-in-law could review them and approve.

A more broad-based version of that advice came from my neighbor Kate Barr, who has two grandchildren. “As [your children] learn to be parents, I advocate that you follow their lead on parenting,” she said, in response to a query that I emailed to experienced grandparents two days before Arthur’s birth. “I’ve never been in the ‘grandmother who spoils the grandkid’ camp.”

“It’s hard to remember sometimes to respect boundaries and not just step in and take over. These are your kids’ kids, not your kids.”

Our son insisted that the four older adults who would routinely provide care for Arthur — his dad and me, along with his mother-in-law and her youngest sister, Aunt Carol — take a grandparenting class at a center in Edina where Nate and his wife had taken a daylong parenting class.

“I had no idea there were grandparent classes,” said my childhood friend Janey Gislason, who helped us through the birth of both our sons. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”

Neither did I. But in hindsight, it makes sense; our younger son was 30 when Arthur was born, which meant I hadn’t fed or changed a baby in nearly three decades. At the time, however, I viewed it as a cheeky demand, one I would not have presumed to make of my own parents — who raised five children — or of my stepmother, who was the most caring and competent grandparent of them all.

I detailed in my blog’s New Year’s letter back in January some of what the class taught us about how parenting trends have changed:

No baby blankets for sleeping, due to fears of suffocation. Instead, you zip the baby into a “sleeping sack” that costs up to $45.
No stuffed animals in the crib, which had helped my son (and me, so many decades ago) feel nurtured and secure.
Although Arthur initially resisted “tummy time,” it was required to help him “develop the muscles of the head, neck and upper back.” I never did intentional tummy time when my boys were babies, and they’re both huge and healthy. But no matter. As one of my sisters succinctly put it: “Learn to know which subjects to keep your mouth shut about.”

A year later, as I reviewed the notes I took in class, one comment from the teacher stood out: “About half the people in any class have been ‘voluntold’ to come,” she said to a round of laughter. At the time, I rolled my eyes. Now I get it.

Millennial adults aren’t having children until their late 30s and early 40s, and they have fewer than the Midwestern, middle-income, small-town families in which my husband and I were raised. Do you value each child more when you don’t have as many? Are you more careful with each precious package because babies’ arrivals are now carefully planned around work and other “adulting” considerations?

Whatever the social or emotional reasons, the power dynamic has shifted between parents and their grown children. The wisdom and expertise that I sought from my own parents, the idea that our baby’s grandparents had something to teach us — Mom urging me to soothe Sam and Nate by holding them cheek to cheek against my face, Dad advising me on circumcision for the boys — is as outdated as a copper penny. And worth about as much.

Our children are in charge. “If I want to be allowed any alone time with grandbaby — without his parents hovering over me like prison guards — I need to at least pretend that I share their worries and fears,” quips one of my former colleagues, like me a first-time grandmother.

“As the child gets a little bit older, find something to do that’s just yours alone to do with your grandchild. That will create special memories.”

None of us gets out of childhood and adolescence without having survived at least one family tragedy. For my husband, it was his mother’s death from cancer when he was 12; for me, it was my parents announcing their pending divorce on my 14^th birthday. For my daughter-in-law, Tess, it was her father’s drowning when she was just 13.

And yet her family has endured, in a way that mine did not after the divorce blew it all to pieces. Three of her mother’s four sisters live nearby, whereas mine reside in separate time zones. The aunts and uncles and cousins all celebrate Christmas and Thanksgiving with white elephant exchanges and other traditions, along with holiday cookie bakes, game nights and an annual summer gathering at her mother’s log cabin lake home in northern Minnesota.

Arthur, of course, has become part of it all — including a multi-generational celebration of his first birthday at the lake this past July. My son sent photos. I have had to work to sidestep jealousy, an ugly emotion that makes me feel inadequate and insecure, and elicits painful memories of how my own extended family has either scattered or died, including, many years ago, the one sibling who lived in town.

Again, I have turned to friends and loved ones for perspective:

“The more people who love that child, the better chance he has in a frightening world,” my friend Helene Haapala told me. That advice made so much sense, and her compassion struck me so deeply, that I have taken to whispering to Arthur: Do you know how many people love you?
“At times it can be hard to have a relationship with the other grandparents,” my friend and neighbor Noelle Jacquet-Morrison wrote in response to my emailed query. “Trust yourself. You will be amazing and amazed at what you can do.”
“Start your own traditions,” my friend David Fortney advised. I took part in Tess’s family Christmas last year when her mother kindly invited me because my husband was out of town, but I don’t want to always be a guest at other families’ celebrations. This December, I am going to drive my dog to Colorado to spend Christmas with my widowed sister, and I want to establish December 29 — my late brother’s birthday — as the day we celebrate the holidays with Arthur and his folks.

“Focus on your own relationship with your grandchild, and let the other grandparents focus on theirs,” says an article from the grandparenting website “More Than Grand.” “Be the best grandparent you can be, whatever your circumstances, and you will be a loved and important part of your grandchild’s team.”

Through the eyes of a grandchild, you get to see the world anew. I arrange to have Arthur spend one day a week at our house, during which we visit the public library, go on stroller rides to look for flowers, share blueberry scones from a nearby bakery and watch WNBA games on TV as he eventually nods off on my lap.

Here’s what I have to offer him: homemade eggs and hugs, goofball games and laughter, music on the stereo and movement outdoors. Like the Duplo bricks I gather from our yard and living room once Arthur has gone home, those are the building blocks of a grandparental bond, an evolving relationship. Our relationship, and the joy it brings to both of us.

Travel as a Practice for Retirement

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A version of this story appeared on June 10, 2025, in Next Avenue, a national publication for older adults published online by Twin Cities PBS.

When I left full-time work in September 2022, two months after turning 65, people naturally asked me how I liked retirement. Once I’d barked out my disdain for the R-word — chin lifted, spine stiffening — they learned not to inquire again.

In fact, the anxiety masked as rigidity was less about them than me: Retirement is a daunting prospect for us Baby Boomers who link our identity and sense of self with work.

I still don’t call myself “retired,” even though I work only a quarter-time job and a handful of contract gigs. But that’s about to change. I’ve given notice at my job, and my first grandchild is on the way, along with some shared responsibility for infant care.

Husband, David Studer, and our older son, Sam Studer, who is at London Film School

Since my husband and I had planned an overseas excursion this past April to visit our older son, who is studying at London Film School, I decided to approach the trip — only my second time in Europe — as practice for the less structured, more selfless life that is awaiting me.

Here’s what I learned.

Lesson 1: Lose Track of Time

We go-getter careerists live and breathe by our agendas. This holds true for me even 32 months after leaving full-time work. My quarter-time job, my freelance assignments, even fitness classes and coffee dates with friends: All fill my calendar at least a month or two out from where I stand today.

The decision to avoid sticking to a rigid schedule in London, aside from ticketed events and planned outings with our son, was an exercise in letting go — both a relief and a discipline all its own. As we planned the trip, I insisted on only one “anchor activity” a day, forcing a spontaneity I rarely allow myself to experience.

My favorite times were early mornings, while my husband was still asleep. With no deadlines to hit or dogs to be walked, I wrote in my journal. Sent postcards back home to friends. Read the library book I had downloaded on my iPad.

I refused to check work emails, relying on the out-of-office message that told people I was away, and tried to sit with the discomfort of being unproductive. The clock dictates my day, and it took effort to silence the pragmatic voice that drives me, even on weekends: “It’s 10 a.m., and you’ve accomplished nothing.”

So what? No one was monitoring my output or keeping score on how deeply I dug into London’s vast cultural scene. Free to let the days and evenings take their course, I felt how nourishing a less hectic life can be. No coincidence, I slept longer and more deeply in a stranger’s British flat than I ever do at home in my own bed.

Lesson 2: Get Out in the World

As luxurious as it was to hang out some mornings, I also had days when I left my night-owl husband sleeping at the Airbnb and struck out on my own. March and April are London’s least rainy months, and a stretch of sunny weather made it a joy to start the day walking the streets or seeing the view atop an iconic, red double-decker bus.

Pro-tip: Google Maps and the Transit app were my best sources of navigation, but I also felt more comfortable being out alone in the daytime once I’d been in town long enough to learn my way around.

One of my fears about full-on retirement is losing regular contact with younger colleagues and allowing my world to shrink. It’s become tempting as I age to stay home with a good book and a homecooked meal, or to settle in with my pets and watch Netflix or women’s basketball and tell myself that is enough. Or that it’s safer.

So, following the lead of a widowed friend who goes alone to movies and concerts and routinely travels on his own, I spent the better part of one morning at the Tate Britain — one bus ride away — browsing the museum store, strolling through galleries and relaxing outside the cafeteria with my book. Yes, I was alone, but I was also among people.

Given my career in journalism and communications, I can easily strike up conversations with strangers, even in a city with thick English accents. The trip showed me how to carry my professional skills into retirement, when I no longer can wrap myself in the security blanket of a title and role, with a ready answer to the question: What do you do?

Lesson 3: Dress to Please Yourself

During my decades as a business reporter and later a marketing-and-communications director, I dressed up every day. Looked and acted the part of a career woman. I enjoyed shopping and the creativity of assembling a wardrobe — mixing and matching outfits, coordinating earrings, scarves and shoes — but toward the end of my career, especially after COVID, “dressing for success” felt like donning a costume. It wasn’t me!

In London, I had no one to dress for but myself. My comfort, the weather and how far I would likely walk that day dictated what I wore. That meant:

Comfortable shoes with heel support and a roomy toe box for the 17,062 steps I averaged during my nine days abroad.
Little to no eye makeup, even for “Carmen” at the Royal Opera House, because it could smudge in the wind and cold.
Refreshing my short razor haircut the day before we left, so I could fluff it with my fingers after wearing a hat for warmth or sun protection.
Ditching the more fashionable purse for a sturdy backpack, both to free my arms while walking and to discourage bag snatchers.

Now that I operate from a home office, I rarely dress up anymore. “Athletic casual” is how my younger son defines my style. Retirement allows that freedom — to quit comparing myself with younger women and dress for the age and body type I am today. And for movement, the best antidote to low energy and stiff joints.

Lesson 4: Keep Learning

My gradual glidepath to retirement these past two and a half years has given me time to adjust, both financially and emotionally. Of course, I worry: Will we have enough money? Who will I be without work? Will volunteering and family life fulfill the sense of purpose that a career has given me for decades?

A trip to London is not exactly high adventure for a white American with English roots. Still, I find it fitting that a foreign country became my place to try out a different way to live. Retirement is a bold undertaking, a journey toward a different land. My passport — my practice in the coming months — will be to remember and refresh these lessons learned.

All Is Calm . . . Now That It’s All Over

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It’s early Christmas morning. The only other being awake in a house now occupied by more animals than people is Q.D., the three-legged cat that my older son left behind when he went off to graduate school in London. My dog is still asleep in the large bedroom down the hall, and my husband’s dog, Gabby, is on a couch in the basement.

She’ll stop by soon and start angling for a walk: nudging my hand, doing down-dog on the wooden floor.

Meanwhile, my coffee mug warms my arthritic left hand. No workaday traffic desecrates the dark silence outside. As I balance the checkbook at my computer, a daily habit I learned from my mother, I notice how much money I have spent at grocery stores the past few days, preparing to host a dinner on Christmas Eve and a lunch today, making my deliciously caloric “soccer mom bars” as treats for my neighbors and the beleaguered postal carrier.

Even though I lead the holiday preparations in our household, I’ve never wanted my sons to assume that the annual traditions are necessarily women’s work. That was the norm during my childhood — women in the kitchen, men watching football on TV — and it has soured me on Thanksgiving, especially, for years (not that I care a whit about watching football).

“Cooking is a gift to people,” I like to tell my sons, hoping they will recognize (and one day emulate) the effort as an expression of love, a service to friends and family.

In fact, my favorite presents this holiday season have been consumables: the hearty loaf of zucchini bread that my friend brought over for Christmas Eve dinner, the tray of delicate Scandinavian cookies that my neighbor bakes each year, the bag of coffee beans with oversized mugs from the friendly folks next door.

Despite the undeniable magic of the day itself, barely a week ago I was feeling burdened by Christmas — weighed down with the expectations that come from marketing and media illusions of what the holiday should be, feeling wistful about the many extended family members who are gone. Wondering why my husband and I — neither of whom count ourselves as Christians — continue to put ourselves through this year after year.

We are often referred to not as citizens but consumers. So it’s really important to put the brakes on consumption through practices like gratitude and reciprocity.

Author and scientist Robin Wall Kimmerer

One morning in early December I recycled a pile of year-end appeals from homegrown organizations that all do good work. Every last one is worth supporting:

Gillette Children’s in St. Paul, which offers “specialized care to help children with cerebral palsy live fuller lives.” My uncle was chief medical officer there for years.
Friends of the Saint Paul Public Library, which helps to “ensure strong public investment in our Library.” There’s a branch three blocks from my house, and I routinely check out books on Libby, the digital app.
History Theatre, where I’ve seen numerous education-focused plays staged by local actors with regional topics, often with discussion and “reflection” sessions afterward.
Minneapolis Institute of Art, where I enjoy the monthly book-inspired public art tours and appreciate the mission to “make art available to all.”

“It’s giving season!” the MIA postcard declares. Indeed. Two days after Christmas, a plethora of emails continues, wringing the most from tax-related year-end appeals.

Although the health of the U.S. economy is measured against growth — how much we produce and consume in a capitalist society — “giving,” I have come to realize, doesn’t have to equal shopping. Three years ago, I started a tradition among my siblings, asking that we forego the exchange of material gifts in favor of contributing to one another’s chosen nonprofit organizations.

Mine was my local Animal Humane Society this year. AHS has provided me with three loving dogs over the past decades, and I value the organization’s efforts to educate current and potential pet owners.

My sister in Maryland chose Laurel Cats, which rescues and rehabilitates abandoned felines. “As the ongoing housing crisis continues in our community, families are facing eviction, and pets continue to be left behind in record numbers,” the newsletter declares, describing a pregnant cat abandoned before a snowstorm.
My dog-loving sister in suburban Denver again chose the Colorado Pet Pantry, which donates pet food to shelters and food shelves so people in financial stress can keep their beloved dogs and cats.
My stepsister in my hometown of Mankato, Minnesota, each year selects Vine: Faith in Action, a community center that “offers a one-stop shop for aging adults.” She knows older people who have moved to Mankato “primarily because of what we have to offer them.”
This year, my brother chose the Trustees in Boston, an environmental organization that protects “exceptional and special places” throughout Massachusetts, where he and his wife raised their sons.

One sibling chose not to donate to my nonprofit this year, and that’s OK. I love to buy people presents — the floor of my office closet is filled with gifts I buy throughout the year, waiting for just the right occasion to bestow them. But to spend money for the sake of it, when you don’t feel inspired to do so, contradicts my growing belief that Christmas should be more about choice than obligation.

One of the great gifts you can give another person is the gift of seeing them, the gift of paying attention.
New York Times columnist David Brooks

In the unhurried hush between Christmas and New Year’s, when the flurry of cooking and cleaning and wrapping presents is over but deadlines and other to-dos remain around the corner, I am thinking about what went right this holiday season.

It was doing the unexpected: foregoing a church service on Christmas Eve in favor of seeing a preview of the new Bob Dylan film, A Complete Unknown, and then discussing that and so many other topics over dinner with my husband and a friend. It was texting loved ones on Christmas morning rather than mailing holiday cards that would have gotten clogged up in the postal system anyway. It was staying out of cheaper suburban big-box stores and patronizing local shops that lend character to my urban neighborhood.

I’ve also been analyzing what didn’t work, like insisting that my younger son and his partner spend time with us on Christmas Day when they’d already had two gatherings with her extended family the day before. Next year, I plan to suggest that we celebrate instead on Sunday, December 28, the day after her birthday.

In mid-December a favorite podcast of mine, “The Opinions,” asked listeners to submit “what brought you joy in 2024.” It was the big things, to be sure: the elevation of Kamala Harris as the Democratic candidate for president, her choice of my state’s ebullient, unpolished governor as her running mate. But in the dark of December, it’s been appreciating what I have, not what I long for — whether that’s better relationships with certain family members or the impossible belief that I should have vanquished all my insecurities by this age.

I restarted the gratitude practice this week that I learned when I first got sober, ticking off five things I am thankful for during my morning dog walk.

Today it’s these:

A warm, comfortable home in a cold, four-season state with a growing population of unsheltered people.
A sister who helped me recognize how holiday traditions and expectations change once adult children have families of their own.
The anticipation of a walk-and-talk this afternoon with a dear friend, who lately is witness to her husband’s failing health.
Physical mobility, even with an aging, sometimes aching body.
The determination, next year, to craft a meaningful Christmas that leans less into what is supposed to be than what feels right, what evolves — and, yes, what brings joy, to me and others.

The Middle Stages: Between Midlife and Old Age

By Amy Gage

Tag Archives: Family

Advice on Being a Grandparent: Don’t Give Advice!