What Happens When Grandparents Start a Weekly Video Call Tradition With a 3-Year-Old
On Saturday mornings, the familiar chime of the video app cuts through the sound of my daughter Emmy’s cartoons. She doesn’t wait for me to tap the answer button. She pushes her tricycle aside, grabs the small blue cup I keep in the kitchen cabinet, and walks to the couch with her hands cupped around it like something precious. “Nana! Pop! Tea!” she announces, as if I’d forgotten.
My parents started this about two months ago. They’d realized that seeing Emmy only every few weeks made her a little shy around them. So my mom suggested a weekly video call. But she didn’t want it to be a boring, “Say hi to Grandma” kind of call. She wanted something Emmy would actually look forward to. The first Saturday, she showed up with a little teapot in her hand — an old ceramic one from my childhood. She filled it with actual tea, while my dad held his own large mug. Then she asked Emmy to get a cup from the kitchen and join them.
That first call, Emmy mostly stared at the screen and clutched her cup without saying anything. My gentle prompts to “say hi to Nana” fell flat. But by the third Saturday, Emmy started anticipating it. She woke up asking, “Is it tea day?” She developed a whole routine around it: picking her cup, deciding whether to fill it with “coffee” (milk) or “tea” (water), and arranging her stuffed animals to “watch” from the edge of the couch.
Now the tradition has settled into its own shape. My mom always asks the same question first: “Emmy, what did you do this week that was fun?” Emmy answers, sometimes with a long jumbled story about a blue truck she saw at the park, and sometimes with a simple “I don’t know.” Then they sing one song — usually “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” because Emmy can do the motions. Then my dad shows off his garden or a bird on his feeder. Then they blow kisses and hang up.
It sounds simple. It is simple. But watching it happen, I’ve been surprised by how much is going on underneath.
For a three-year-old, the most valuable part of a tradition isn’t the activity itself. It’s the predictable rhythm. Emmy now understands that Saturdays have a particular structure, and she can anticipate what comes next. That kind of temporal ordering is something toddlers only develop gradually. Time isn’t natural for them — it’s just a blur of needs and routines. But when a same thing happens at a regular interval, they start to build a mental map of time. “After breakfast, tea with Nana.” It gives her a little anchor in the week, something she controls and can look forward to. That’s not just sweet; it’s genuinely soothing.
There’s also a language component I didn’t foresee. Because the call is basically a conversation, Emmy is practicing turn-taking, listening, and answering open-ended questions. My mom is brilliant at waiting — she doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She’ll sit there calmly holding her teacup, wearing her patient smile, until Emmy decides to speak. That’s a luxury I often don’t have during our busy weekday mornings. On Saturdays, with a cartoon paused and the kitchen still quiet, Emmy gets to shape the pace of the conversation. She gets to be the one who leads, even if her “lead” is just showing Nana her cup.
The structure of the call also helps. Every time, the same greeting, the same question, the same song, the same goodbye. Repetition might seem dull to an adult, but for a toddler it’s how they learn. It gives the call a clear start and end, and Emmy always knows what’s expected of her. She’s actually more engaged during this ritual than during a more open-ended video call with a relative who just says “show me your toys” for twenty minutes. The predictability is a container that holds her attention.
As a parent, I’ve learned a few things from this. One is that I have a role in making a tradition work, but it isn’t the starring role. I’m the stagehand. I make sure the cup is clean, and I try not to interfere. The hardest part was resisting the urge to coach Emmy through the call. “Tell Nana about the park. Remember the truck? Say thank you for the song.” It creates pressure. Instead, I’ve learned to let the call be a little awkward. Sometimes Emmy just wanders off in the middle and comes back with a toy. That’s okay. My parents take it in stride, and Emmy learns that she’s free to participate in her own way.
Another thing I’ve realized is that it’s important to protect the tradition’s ordinary quality. We don’t make it a big production. It’s not a scheduled learning activity; it’s just tea time. My mom occasionally sends a small card or sticker in the mail, but she doesn’t make it a reward. The call itself is the ritual. If Emmy isn’t in the mood, we don’t force it — they save the video, and we watch it later. That low-friction flexibility has kept it from becoming another thing to check off the list.
Of course, not every call goes smoothly. Last weekend, Emmy spilled her water all over the floor midway through the song. She started to cry, and I had to pause the call to clean up. When I came back, my parents were talking to each other on the couch, completely relaxed, waiting for us. “A good call is one where we just see her, even if she’s melting down a little,” my dad said. That stuck with me. The tradition isn’t about achieving a perfect little performance. It’s about a presence — showing up at the same time, looking at each other, and saying the same familiar things.
I also had to get over my own initial hesitation. At first, I felt a little guilty that we weren’t visiting them in person more often. A video call felt like a substitute, a consolation prize. But Emmy has no such sense of hierarchy. For her, Nana and Pop on the screen are just Nana and Pop. The glowing rectangle is a window, not a barrier. She knows their voices, their faces, their favorite cup. In her mind, the connection is as real as if they were sitting beside her on the couch.
What I’m noticing now is that the tradition is beginning to extend beyond Saturday mornings. Midweek, Emmy will sometimes pick up her blue cup and pretend to have her own tea party with her stuffed animals. She says “Nana’s cup is green,” and pours imaginary tea for her bunny. She’s re-enacting the ritual, which is how young children make something their own. It’s her way of keeping my parents close even between calls.
I don’t know how long this tradition will last. Maybe when Emmy gets a few years older, Saturday morning hockey or sleepovers will edge it out. Maybe she’ll stop being interested. That’s fine. I don’t need it to be permanent. I’m enjoying it while it works, and I’m learning something parenting books don’t always emphasize: that a tiny, silly routine — a cup, a song, a weekly wave through a screen — can be enough to help a child feel grounded, connected, and a little bit more in control of her world.
For now, though, on Saturday mornings, the chime rings. Emmy races to the couch. She holds her blue cup with one hand and presses the answer button with the other. “Hi Nana. It’s tea time.” And I just sit on the kitchen stool, drinking my own coffee, not saying a word.
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