The mother-in-law arrives, plays with the child for a while—then leaves, perfectly content. Meanwhile, I’m left to cook, clean, and keep up a cheerful smile…
When I stumbled upon an article titled *”I Don’t Want to Babysit My Grandchildren on Weekends,”* it struck me—this was my life laid bare. The topic felt painfully familiar, especially for those trapped in the role of “housebound mother with a toddler and a mother-in-law draped over the threshold like a decorative but demanding curtain.”
My son isn’t even a year old yet. He has one grandmother—my husband’s mother, Margaret Spencer. A retired stage actress, though the theatrics never left her voice, nor the dramatic sighs that still punctuate every sentence. At every opportunity, she declares how deeply she adores her grandson. *”I’m always here, always ready to help!”* It sounds lovely, but reality… well, reality tells a different story.
After taking early retirement, she found herself with endless free time and empty days to fill. So she visits. Not to help, not to give me a single hour’s break—but *”to pop in.”* Always on weekends, when my husband’s home. She insists on *”having the whole family together.”* Sometimes she drags along my father-in-law, though he’s a quiet man, lost in his own world. They even sleep in separate rooms.
Picture this: the baby’s wailing, teething, stomach churning, my nerves frayed to threads after two sleepless nights, my reflection in the mirror a ghost of exhaustion. Then comes the announcement: *”Help is on the way!”*—only for that *”help”* to materialise as Margaret, perfectly coiffed, clutching a plush rabbit and a bag of jelly babies. She sinks into her favourite armchair, scoops up the baby, snaps photos, coos, laughs. Fine, except I’m expected to be the flawless hostess—spotless house, steaming kettle, cake fresh from the oven.
At first, I scrubbed floors before her visits, baked Victoria sponges, simmered soup, tossed salads. Then I realised—I couldn’t keep it up. I tried shifting some duties to my husband. Poor man, after a gruelling week, all he craves is silence. But *”Mum’s coming over”*—and that’s that. Abandon your rest, polish the taps, dust the shelves, wipe the baby’s nose.
Not once has she ever turned up just to say, *”Go lie down, darling—I’ll watch the little one.”* No. She comes for entertainment. Plays her part—then exits. If she’s bored, she scoops up her handbag and vanishes. Sometimes she doesn’t even stay half an hour. And what’s left for me? A tower of unwashed dishes, an overtired child, and precisely zero relief. Meanwhile, the neighbours sing her praises: *”What a doting grandmother! Always so involved.”* Oh yes—*involved*, but never where it counts.
People advise me: *”Don’t clean. Don’t cook. Let her see the mess.”* But try it when her eyes dissect every crumb on the counter, every unwashed mug. My husband pleads, *”Can’t we just humour her once a week?”*
And I’m left feeling guilty. As though *I’m* the selfish one. As though I don’t want my child to have a grandmother. But is this really help? Or just a performance of love—for an audience? *Sweet grandson, happy family!* Then home she goes, back to her crime dramas. Meanwhile, I’m left with the dirty plates, the sleepless nights, the nerves scraped raw.
Real help would be her taking the baby to *her* house. Giving me *one* free afternoon. Not staging a one-woman play in my kitchen. No, she isn’t *obliged* to help. But I’m not a maid, expected to host afternoon tea every Sunday. I’m a mother. Exhausted, hollow-eyed, hanging on by a thread. And while everyone insists what a *wonderful* grandmother she is, all I dream of is a single weekend where no one knocks on the door, clutching a tin of shortbread and chirping, *”Now then—how’s the happy household?”*
Thanks for listening.
