COLUMN: Don’t Mind the Mess – Waffles, white sauce, and what really matters

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 19/06/2025 (235 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

My grandson wanted to come over for the night and watch movies with me. Just a simple ask. And as he’s getting a little more grown up, I’m starting to cherish these moments even more. But I have to confess—I’m not the kind of grandma my mother was.

My mom was an old-fashioned Mennonite farm wife. Her life revolved around her family, her husband, the farm, and of course, God. She worked hard—gardened, canned, cleaned, sewed, crocheted, fed whoever walked through the door—and still made time for her grandchildren. Even if her sewing project was half-finished or she was at the good part in her novel, she set it down. Even if the laundry pile was whispering threatening things from the hallway, or the rhubarb in the garden was waving its leafy arms in distress, she chose us. She always did.

Me? I was tired. Exhausted, actually, after a long week of work, deadlines, and neglected laundry. The yard looked like a jungle. I hadn’t even planted flowers yet. Everything in me said, “not tonight.”

But there he was—this young boy, asking to spend time with a woman many decades older than him. Just some popcorn, a few movies, a sleepover on the living room floor. Was that too much to ask?

Turns out, it wasn’t. Guilt won. And thank goodness it did.

Because somehow, one sleepover turned into three kids, a mountain of blankets, and a makeshift campsite in the living room. There were snacks. There were movies. And there was laughter—the kind that fills a room and burrows into your soul, the kind that lingers long after everyone’s gone home.

Did I sleep? Barely. My eyes were bloodshot the next morning because no one at a sleepover actually sleeps. And just as I closed my eyes for a five-minute nap (okay, it was four minutes), I was greeted by small voices and big energy: “Grandma, we want waffles!”

And not just waffles. Waffles with Mennonite white sauce—the kind only Grandma knows how to make. So I dragged out the waffle iron, and we made breakfast. More importantly, we made memories.

I’m not saying you have to say yes every time. Boundaries are important. But I do know this: the window for these kinds of moments is small. One day, they’re begging for waffles and one more movie. The next, they’re too busy, too cool, or too far away.

We spend so much of our lives working hard, chasing deadlines, keeping the house in order, paying the bills. We tell ourselves that we’ll have more time “later.” Later, when we retire. Later, when things calm down. But when “later” comes, we finally have the time—and the grandkids are the ones who don’t.

Time is sneaky like that. It slips through our fingers while we’re busy being responsible. And just when we finally feel ready to slow down and be present, the people we want to spend it with are off chasing their own lives.

So yes, I was tired. Yes, the laundry still isn’t done. No, I still haven’t planted flowers. But my living room smelled like syrup and childhood the next morning, and that’s a trade I’ll make any day of the week.

Because one day, they’ll remember these sleepovers. The waffles. The white sauce. The laughter. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll remember that their grandma always made time.

Even when she was tired.