I was born in 1964, back when parenting was… well, let’s just say looser. I don’t recall ever riding in a car seat. Actually, I don’t even remember buckling a seatbelt. Back then, seatbelts were considered more of a nuisance than a necessity—most people just shoved them down into the seat crack to get them out of sight.
Turns out, car seats have existed since the 1930s—but they weren’t designed for safety. They were more like baby cages to keep the little ones from climbing all over the car. It wasn’t until the 1980s that car seats became mandatory and were finally recognized as essential safety gear.
By 1994, I had a baby of my own—and just like that, I was thrown into a whirlwind of new and improved parenting rules. Car seats were now non-negotiable (and thank goodness, because they were finally built for actual safety). Baby walkers? Practically banned—too many horror stories of little daredevils zooming down staircases. Even the “correct” way for a baby to sleep kept changing. First, it was side-sleeping with a rolled-up towel for support. Then came the big switch: Back is best. No more side-sleeping, no belly snoozing—just a flat back and a firm mattress.
Cribs were still often hand-me-downs from family or friends—usually decked out in matching bumper pads and comforters that looked adorable but, as we would later learn, weren’t exactly safe. We didn’t know better. That’s just what you did. And of course, around three months old, it was practically a rite of passage to sneak a little rice cereal into the bottle—because grandma said it helped the baby sleep longer (and we were exhausted enough to believe her).
And let’s not forget the baby monitor situation. If you were fancy, you had a basic audio monitor with a fuzzy speaker and a long antenna that looked like it belonged on a police radio. Otherwise, you just kept the nursery door cracked and relied on your mom-ears to pick up any crying—no apps, no live video feed, no night vision surveillance. Just instinct, caffeine, and a whole lot of guesswork.
Fast-forward to 2023, and I became a first-time grandmother—aka Nonni. And whew, I got a whole new crash course in Baby 101.
Those beautiful hand-me-down cribs? Unsafe. Outdated. Banned. Bumper pads? Gone. Matching baby comforters? Decorative, yes—but potential death traps. Today’s crib. Just a firm mattress and the baby. No bumpers, no blankets, no stuffed animals, no pillows. All are now considered suffocation risks. Instead of blankets, babies sleep in wearable, zip-up fleece cocoons called sleep sacks. And forget adding cereal or water to a bottle—it’s strictly formula or breast milk.
And the baby monitors? Oh, they’ve evolved into full-on surveillance systems. Wi-Fi-connected cameras let you peek into the nursery from anywhere in the world. As someone who frequently works out of state, I love having access to the camera in my granddaughter’s room—when my daughter chooses to turn it on for nap or bedtime. It’s comforting to pop in and see her sleeping, cuddling her bunny, or shuffling around in her footie pajamas.
But here’s the problem with being a long-distance, high-tech Nonni: I see everything. And sometimes, I just can’t help myself.
Like the time I watched her get out of bed and toddle over to the door. She tried desperately to open it, her tiny hands fumbling with the doorknob, letting out a gut-wrenching plea—“Open… open.” I felt myself dying inside. Every instinct in me wanted to jump through the screen and rescue her. Instead, I did the only thing I could do from 365 miles away: I panicked and texted my daughter.
“Don’t you see her? She’s awake and calling out!”
“Yes, Mom. I see her. I’m giving her a minute. She sometimes lays back down.”
Sure enough, ten seconds later, she snuggled back into bed and drifted off.
A little while later, she began whimpering in her sleep. Again, I watched. Waited. Nobody went in. My blood pressure rose.
I finally called:
“Don’t you hear her crying? She’s upset!”
“Yes, Mother. I hear her. She’ll settle.”
And just like that, she did.
“Mother, I’m going to cut your access,” my daughter warned.
“Okay, okay. I’m zipping it,” I promised.
The truth is, my daughter is doing a beautiful job. Her girls are bright, healthy, happy, and loved. She has a rhythm, a routine, and a parenting style that works. And I have to remind myself that she’s 31 years old now—with a family of her own.
I raised her. I taught her everything I could. But now? It’s her turn. My job is to support her… from a safe distance. Boundaries matter. So I’ll do my best to honor them—even when every fiber of my being wants to chime in. I’ll keep cheering her on from the sidelines—quietly, respectfully… and ideally without texting her parenting advice from 365 miles away during nap time. (No promises.)
