Caught between a grandmother’s boundless love for her granddaughter and a father’s right to make the decisions, Sara finds herself at the center of a struggle in which both sides want exactly the same thing: what is best for her—
“Of all the parents whose children I’ve cared for, you were the most difficult.”
Those cutting words came from none other than my dear mother a few days ago, on the final day she officially cared for Sara before she started daycare.
It was obvious that she had wanted to say them for quite some time—perhaps from the very beginning, when Sara and I moved into my parents’ home straight from the maternity ward. But somehow, she managed to hold them in for many long months, despite quite a few difficult incidents, arguments, and fights.
It wasn’t easy for me to digest what she had said. And yet, knowing how demanding I can be, sometimes to the point of absurdity, I have to admit that she was right.
Before I begin this post, one of the most difficult I have written since launching this blog, I want to state one fact firmly and without hesitation: no one—and I mean no one—loves my daughter Sara more than her grandmother, my dear mother.
Even before Sara was born, my mother had already been blessed with five grandchildren and two great-grandchildren, whom she loves more than life itself. But ever since Sara came into the world—and I feel slightly uncomfortable admitting this—it sometimes seems as though she is the only one who exists.
I, of course, am not complaining.
Sara is my only daughter, and the boundless spoiling she receives from her grandmother brings joy to all of us—especially to Sara.
I don’t know exactly why, at the age of 76, my mother was practically reborn alongside her youngest granddaughter. I suspect it is a combination of several things.
Sara is the daughter of her eldest son, the lonely lifelong bachelor—yours truly. For decades, my mother had waited for this miracle to come from me. When it finally happened, against all odds, she felt as though she had won the ultimate prize.
In addition, my mother is a certified infant caregiver who cared for dozens of babies throughout her long professional career. But I don’t believe she had ever experienced as much joy as she did while caring for Sara when her father went to work.
She cared for her with incomparable devotion and dedication, and I will be grateful to her for the rest of my life.
There is, of course, another reason—one that I believe carries considerable weight: Sara was named after her.
All these reasons combined have made my daughter the entire world of her loving grandmother.
At First, Mom Ran the Show
Perhaps that is precisely why my mother and I found ourselves in more than a few heated confrontations over the way Sara should be cared for.
During the first few days after the birth, when I was still a particularly frightened new father, I handed my mother the stage and allowed her to run the show as she saw fit, based on her many years of professional experience.
For my part, I mostly tried to stay out of her way.
But gradually, as I gained experience in my new role, I began developing an opinion about nearly every aspect of Sara’s care, no matter how small or insignificant. I started challenging my mother and expressing my views—and, whenever I felt it was necessary, my objections—on seemingly trivial matters: how Sara should be fed, what clothes she should wear, when she should sleep, when she should be taken outside for a short walk in the garden, when she should be bathed, and so much more.
I have always had the utmost respect for my mother. For decades, she was the only person I felt genuinely cared about me, and for a lonely, emotionally detached person like me, that meant the world.
She was the first person I told about the surrogacy. She was also the one who never stopped encouraging me throughout the long, exhausting, obstacle-ridden process, which took an enormous emotional toll on me.
Even then, she repeatedly promised that she would help me raise the baby I hoped to have one day—who would eventually become Sara. When the moment of truth arrived, she did not let me down. Quite the opposite.
She suggested that Sara and I move into her home for as long as necessary so that she could share the burden of caring for her with me. Throughout the entire period we lived at my parents’ house, she took care of me no less than she took care of her newborn granddaughter. She worked day and night to make things easier for me and pamper me in the way only a mother like her could.
Long after Sara and I moved out of my parents’ home and into our own apartment, my mother continued coming over to help care for her. She even cleaned the house while I was away, without my asking her to, because as a mother who knows her son well, she immediately recognized how much I was struggling.
She regularly accompanied us to all of Sara’s medical appointments and checkups—to the pediatrician, the well-baby clinic, and even during one difficult night we spent at Wolfson Medical Center when Sara was only ten days old, as I described in the post “The Scariest Day of My Life.”
She joined us on trips to shopping malls, the beach, the swimming pool, the grocery store, and practically everywhere else we went.
To be honest, my mother does not merely help me care for Sara. She is actively helping me raise her. In Sara’s life, she fulfills two roles: grandmother and mother. Nothing less.
The truth is that without my mother’s help, my life as a single father would be infinitely more difficult.
Double the Pampering for One Little Girl
Despite all this, and despite the love and mutual respect between us, my mother and I do not see eye to eye on quite a few matters concerning Sara’s care.
One of our recurring arguments involves the amount of pampering I give her, particularly the fact that I pick her up almost every time she wants me to.
From the very beginning, my mother warned me not to get Sara too accustomed to being in my arms, fearing that she might become overly dependent on me.
I listened to what she had to say, but I saw things differently.
Because Sara is the only daughter of a single father, I believe in giving her double the pampering. In other words, I want to give her both a father’s and a mother’s share, so that she will never feel deprived of attention or love.
I often think about the years ahead and about the day when Sara realizes that her family is structured differently from some of her friends’ families. Perhaps she will ask why other children have a mother and she does not. I don’t know how she will experience that realization, but I admit that the thought worries me.
That is why I want her to grow up knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that her father—her only parent—is capable of giving her all the love, security, and attention that other children receive from two parents combined.
This line of thinking has led to further arguments over another equally complicated issue: boundaries.
My mother tells me again and again that I must set boundaries for Sara, or she will have a very difficult time adjusting to daycare.
I have no doubt that there is truth in what she says. At the same time, I believe that throughout Sara’s life, there will be more than enough daycare teachers, schoolteachers, and other adults setting boundary after boundary for her. At least until she is introduced to the restrictive ways of the world, I want her home to be as free and permissive as possible.
That does not mean there are no boundaries in our home. I simply try to limit them to what is genuinely necessary. As long as something does not harm her health or jeopardize her safety, I allow Sara to do almost anything.
Who Decides When the Night Is Over?
Another bone of contention—one of many—is whether I should take Sara out of her crib at night when she asks me to.
My mother says I should not. According to her, Sara must learn to fall asleep and sleep on her own, even when she finds it difficult. She believes I should take her out of her crib only when the situation truly requires it—for example, when she needs to be fed.
Once again, I see things a little differently.
From time to time, Sara has considerable difficulty falling asleep for one reason or another, and in most cases, I come to her rescue. Sometimes she becomes upset—perhaps because of a bad dream or a loud noise that frightened her—and then Daddy rushes to her crib, scoops her up, and gives her one long, satisfying hug.
Eventually, when Sara signals that it is time for me to let go, I return her to her crib for another attempt at falling asleep.
Sometimes she is so tired that she seems to have simply lost the ability to sleep. When that happens, I take her out of her crib and bring her into the living room. I let her crawl around and burn off some energy, and when she starts yawning and rubbing her eyes again, I return her to bed.
Is this the correct method? I don’t know.
But when my daughter calls for me in the middle of the night, I find it very difficult to explain to her, in the name of some parenting philosophy, that Daddy is not coming.
Food Is Also a Game
Another subject that put my relationship with my mother to the test was the way I feed Sara.
Following the advice of the nurse at the well-baby clinic and several other knowledgeable people I consulted, I allow Sara to touch her food with her fingers during meals of fruit, cheese, or chicken soup—or to “play with it,” as my mother likes to complain.
The reasoning behind that advice made sense to me from the beginning. It allows Sara to explore different textures, temperatures, and smells, practice bringing food to her mouth by herself, and gradually develop independence and a positive relationship with mealtimes.
My mother’s logic is different: eating this way teaches Sara bad habits that will be very difficult for her to break in the future.
I see a curious baby exploring her food.
My mother sees a baby treating her food like a toy.
And we are both convinced that we are right.
When the Argument Is About Acetaminophen—and Everything Else in the World
These are only a few examples of the issues that have caused my mother and me to argue. In fact, almost anything related to Sara’s care, large or small, could bring us to the brink of an explosion.
We argue about the use of acetaminophen, the clothes Sara should wear at night, which snacks and foods she should be given, what time she should sleep, and countless other matters.
But no matter how heated or difficult our arguments became, they were never driven by ego. The only thing either of us ever had in mind was what was best for Sara.
And yet, there is one truth that cannot be avoided.
As much as I love my mother, value her, and appreciate everything she has done, continues to do, and will keep doing for Sara and me, ultimately, Sara has only one parent.
Me.
I am her father. I bear full responsibility for raising her, for her health, her safety, and her future. I am also the person who will have to live with the consequences of every decision made on her behalf.
Therefore, at the end of the day, I am the one who decides.
That does not diminish my mother’s place in Sara’s life in any way. Quite the opposite. It is precisely because she plays such a central and meaningful role in raising Sara that our disagreements can become so intense. We both love the same little girl with a love that knows no boundaries, but each of us has a different idea of the right way to express it.
Grandma’s Last Day on the Job
Now, as Sara prepares to begin daycare, there could be no better time to thank my mother for the devoted care she gave her throughout the first ten and a half months of her life.
During that entire period, it sometimes seemed as though my mother’s whole existence was directed toward one purpose alone: taking care of Sara.
My mother will no longer be Sara’s official caregiver, but she will continue to play an enormously important role in raising her. Because of my problematic working hours, she will take Sara to daycare, pick her up, and care for her until her father comes home from work.
A grandmother’s work is never done.
Especially when that grandmother is also, in many ways, a mother to the very same child.
As for the title of this post, it should be clear to anyone who has read this far that this is not truly a power struggle in the conventional sense. My mother is not trying to control me or fight me. All she wants is what is best for the granddaughter who means more to her than anything in the world—just as I do.
But perhaps that is precisely why our battles can become so intense.
When two people love one little girl with all their hearts, each of them is convinced that they know what is best for her. Sometimes those two forms of love complement each other, and sometimes they collide head-on over a bowl of soup, a bedtime, or a pair of pants.
Even during moments of disagreement, large or small, my mother and I will continue working together as a team.
Because even when we disagree about the path, we are both heading toward exactly the same destination:
What is best for Sara.
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