I’m sorry I’m such a helicopter parent.

One day in November 2024, I started cleaning out an old closet full of old school textbooks and, to my surprise, discovered an essay I wrote when I was ten years old.

The title was What Would I Buy If I Had £100.

At that moment my grandchildren burst through the door. I’m lucky enough to live around the corner from them, so I help a littleespecially during school holidays while their parents are working.

“Look!” I said. “I just found a story I wrote. Do you want to write too?

“Not now,” groaned seven-year-old George. “We want to ride bikes in the garden.”

“Mom asked me to do homework with you,” I begged.

“We don’t want to,” nine-year-old Rose said firmly.

“But you love writing stories.”

This is true. My granddaughter she has a very vivid imagination and I am convinced that she has the writing gene in her.

“Yes, but we don’t want to do it right now,” George retorted.

It was impossible to move them. I have to say that I felt like I failed. Surely this would be good for them? Plus, stories have always been a passion of mine, and I love the idea that they have inherited the “writing gene.”

Later, after they had gone home, I continued cleaning out the closet and came across a math notebook with a purple cover and lots of crossed out marks. One even had a 3/10 and the scary words “We need to try harder.”

A terrible cold struck me. I was instantly transported back to class, I was ten years old and I felt like a complete fool.

I also went to a very academic school where you were expected to be the best at everything. Anything related to math used to literally make me break out in a cold sweat—and still does.

My father, in an attempt to improve my grades, spent hours trying to help me with terrible mental arithmetic like: “If a baker has 12 buns and they cost 3p each, how much will they make?”

I couldn’t do it for love or money and it made me feel completely stupid. The nagging, although made with the best intentions, only made the situation worse.

And yet I continued it with my own children: Always tries his best to practice spelling and makes sure they do their homework.

I have to say that all three of us got good grades and diplomas in school, but the pressure of my expectations caused a lot of stress for all of us.

And now I’m doing the same to my own grandchildren. Often when I was a grandma I would sit them down and give them spelling tests and even do sums when they really want to do something else.

Worse, I don’t always know what I’m doing. Today they add, subtract and divide in a completely different way. But the stereotype “you need to do well in school” is so firmly ingrained in my head that I just can’t help it.

Until now. That terrible math textbook with the purple cover made me realize something. I would become a helicopter grandma! Moreover, I transferred my academic likes and dislikes to them (English instead of math or science every time!).

It was time to relax.

So I’ve been trying ever since. I won’t say it was easy. Having grandchildren is a big responsibility, and I’m often on edge—not just with homework, but with everything else. In fact, it’s fair to say that I constantly expect disaster to be around the corner. “Beware of this car,” “hold my hand,” and “wait for me” are practically engraved on my tongue, and always will be.

I also deal with table manners. “Your home is much worse than ours,” my daughter says. “I think they’re playing along with you.”

Quite possible.

However, I have cut down on nagging about homework. Instead of searching for “words every seven- or eight-year-old should know” and taking spelling tests, I now start my grandma days with crafts like tie-dying or adventurous walks on the beach. Then I’ll add some weird academic know-how like, “Did you know that the white-toothed cowrie shell is the rarest shell in the world?”

On a recent snowy day, we played several educational board games without even realizing it because we were laughing so much.

Then last week something happened. “You know the story you showed us about what you would buy if you had £100,” Rose said. “What did you write?”

“I said I’d buy my mom driving lessons.”

“Why hasn’t she left yet?”

“Because it was expensive, just like it is now,” I explained. “Besides, in those days quite a lot of women didn’t drive.”

“Why not?”

This led to a long conversation about times and money prices that have changed since then.

“Can we write down what we would buy if we had £100?” Rose asked, seemingly forgetting that she hadn’t wanted to do this before.

“Certainly.”

So I opened mine special grandchildren kitchen drawer stuffed with pens and paper.

I’ll let you know what they put in when they’re done. Apparently they’re still working on it, and I’m not going to rush them. This is part of the new thing that has relaxed me.

In the meantime, I asked George, who is particularly good with numbers, to explain the modern method of division. It’s more like a game now, and you know, it’s actually quite fun. Moreover, it increases his confidence as an expert and also my confidence as a beginner.

I’m still working on becoming a calmer grandma. But when I find myself slipping, I go back to that awful purple math book I found and remind myself that “whining about better things” is not helping that special grandparent-grandchild relationship.

It’s the magic of laughter and happy faces that create memories. So sorry. We’ve already come to the end. I decided to empty this closet forever.

Jane Corrie is the author of eight Sunday Times Penguin bestselling books. Her latest novel I died on Tuesdayabout a woman who vacillates between life and death