The mother-in-law pops over, plays with the child for a bit, and leaves perfectly content. Meanwhile, I’m left to cook, clean, and keep up the cheerful facade…
When I stumbled upon an article titled *I Don’t Want to Babysit My Grandkids on Weekends*, I nearly laughed—or cried. It was my life spelled out in black and white. A painfully familiar tale, especially for anyone stuck in the role of “household CEO with a toddler and a mother-in-law who’s more of a guest than a helper.”
My son isn’t even a year old yet. He has one grandmother—my husband’s mother, Marjorie Thornton. A retired theatre actress, though you’d never know the curtain had closed, given the dramatic flair she still brings to every conversation. She never misses a chance to declare her undying love for her grandson. *I’m always here if you need me!* Sounds lovely—until reality checks in.
With early retirement came endless free time, and so she visits. Not to help, not to give me a much-needed break—no, she comes *as a guest*. Always on weekends, when my husband’s home, because she likes *everyone together*. Sometimes she brings her own husband, though frankly, the man’s a ghost—barely present, living in his own little world, and they even sleep in separate rooms.
Picture the scene: baby wailing, teething, tummy troubles, me running on fumes, looking like something the cat dragged in. Then, *The cavalry’s arriving!*—only for it to be Marjorie, dressed to the nines, clutching a bag of marshmallows and a squeaky toy. She plonks herself in the best chair, coos at the baby, snaps a few photos, kisses his cheeks, and laughs her tinkling laugh. All well and good—but meanwhile, I’m expected to be the perfect hostess, greeting her in a spotless house with freshly baked scones and a pot of tea.
At first, I scrubbed floors and whipped up Victoria sponges before her visits. Then I cracked. Now I delegate some of it to my husband—poor chap, who dreams only of quiet after a long workweek. But *Mum’s coming over*—so out comes the polish, the duster, the desperate wiping of the baby’s nose.
Not once has Marjorie ever said, *Go lie down, love—I’ll take him for a bit.* Not once. She comes to be entertained. Plays with the baby, then vanishes. If she gets bored? Handbag scooped up, coat on, out the door—sometimes before half an hour’s up. And I’m left with a sink full of dishes, a cranky toddler, and precisely zero relief. Meanwhile, the neighbours gush, *What a wonderful grandmother! So devoted!* Oh yes. *Devoted*—just not to the person actually drowning in nappies and sleepless nights.
People tell me, *Stop cleaning. Let her see the chaos.* Easy for them to say—try lounging in your pyjamas when she’s side-eyeing every crumb on the counter. Even my husband sighs, *Can’t we just have Mum over once a week without a fuss?*
And I feel guilty. Like I’m being selfish. Like I’m depriving my son of a doting granny. But is this really help? Or is it just a performance of love—for an audience of one? *Darling boy, sweet family!* And then—home in time for *EastEnders*. Meanwhile, I’m left with the dirty plates, the sleepless nights, and the creeping burnout.
Real help would be taking the baby for an afternoon. Giving me one blessed Saturday off. Not staging a matinee in my kitchen. No, she doesn’t *have* to. But I’m not a maid, either, obliged to serve high tea every Sunday noon. I’m a mum. Exhausted, barely holding it together. And while everyone sings her praises, all I dream of is one weekend where no one knocks on the door with a box of chocolates and chirps, *Ooooh, how’s everyone doing in here?*
Thanks for listening.
