The mother-in-law comes over, plays with the child for a bit—then leaves, perfectly content. Meanwhile, I’m left to cook, clean, and keep smiling…
When I read an article titled *I Don’t Want to Babysit My Grandchildren on Weekends*, I thought—that’s my life. The topic struck a nerve, especially for anyone stuck in the role of “housewife with a toddler and a mother-in-law permanently attached.”
My son isn’t even a year old yet. He has one grandmother—my husband’s mother, Margaret Spencer. A retired stage actress, she still carries that dramatic flair in her voice and mannerisms. At every opportunity, she gushes about how much she adores her grandson. *”I’m always here, always ready to help!”* Sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Reality, however, tells a different story.
Since taking early retirement, she’s had endless free time and empty days to fill. So she visits. Not to help, not to give me a break—just to *drop by*. Always on weekends, when my husband’s home. She loves having *”the whole family together.”* Sometimes she brings her husband along, but he’s his own person, living his own life—they don’t even share a bedroom.
Picture this: the baby’s screaming, teething, his tummy hurts, I’m frazzled, running on no sleep for two nights, looking like death warmed up. Then I’m told, *”Help is on the way!”*—only for that *”help”* to arrive in the form of Margaret, dressed to the nines, clutching a plush toy and a bag of marshmallows. She settles into her favourite armchair, scoops up her grandson, snaps photos, coos, laughs. Fine—except I’m expected to be the perfect hostess, greeting her with a spotless home and a hot meal ready.
At first, I scrubbed floors before her visits, baked cakes, whipped up soups and salads. Then I realised—I couldn’t keep it up. I started shifting some chores to my husband. Poor man, after a full workweek, all he wants is peace. But *”Mum’s coming”*—and just like that, he’s scrubbing the bath, dusting shelves, wiping the baby’s nose.
Not once has Margaret ever said, *”Go rest, I’ll watch the little one—take a nap.”* No. She comes for entertainment. Plays for a bit—then leaves. If she gets bored? She grabs her handbag and walks out. Sometimes she doesn’t even stay half an hour. Meanwhile, I’m left with a mountain of dishes, an overtired child, and not an ounce of relief. Yet the neighbours sing her praises: *”What a devoted grandmother! Always there, so loving.”* Oh yes—always *there*, just never where it counts.
People advise me: *”Stop cleaning. Stop cooking. Let her see the mess.”* But try it—when every speck of dust, every unwashed mug earns herjudgmental stare. Even my husband wonders, *”Can’t we just host Mum once a week?”*
And I feel guilty. Like I’m selfish. Like I don’t want my child to have a grandmother. But is this *help*? It’s performative love—for an audience. My boy, her darling grandson, the happy family! Then—home she goes, back to her TV dramas. I’m left with dirty plates, sleepless nights, and frayed nerves.
Real help would be her taking the baby to *her* place. Actually giving me a day off. Not turning my kitchen into her personal stage. No, she’s not obligated. But I’m not a maid either, expected to arrange Sunday luncheons on demand. I’m a mother. Exhausted, sleep-deprived, barely keeping it together. And while everyone insists on what a *wonderful* grandmother she is, I just dream of *one* weekend where no one rings the doorbell with a box of chocolates and a chirpy, *”So—how’s everyone here?”*
Sometimes, love isn’t about grand gestures—it’s about stepping in when the weight is too heavy to carry alone.
