Grandmother: comes, plays with the child, leaves. Me: cooks, cleans, entertains.
I am at my wit’s end. Every weekend turns into an endless marathon where I must be the perfect hostess, mother, and conversationalist—all because of my mother-in-law’s visits, who calls herself the “doting grandmother.” She arrives, plays with her grandson, and I am left to cook, clean, and smile as if I have no other cares in the world. This isn’t just my story, but one so familiar to many that it stirs up a storm of emotions. People debate it, argue over it, and I realize—not everyone wants this kind of “help” on weekends.
Our son has only one grandmother—my husband’s mother, Margaret Elizabeth. She is the quintessential grandmother from a small town near Manchester. Once an actress in the local theatre, she adores being the centre of attention. She never stops proclaiming how much she loves our son, how she misses him, how eager she is to help. But her “help” is nothing more than social calls that feel like theatrical performances.
Margaret Elizabeth retired early, and now her days stretch long and idle. She lives alone, and our home has become her escape from boredom. Yet she doesn’t come to babysit or give me a moment’s rest—she comes “for a visit.” And how can I refuse the only grandmother he has? She isn’t doing anything wrong. She has every right to see her grandson. Each time, she brings him toys, holds him in her arms, sometimes even pushes his pram around the garden for forty minutes—and that’s the extent of her “help.” The neighbours are charmed: “What a wonderful grandmother, always visiting her grandson!” But no one sees what happens behind closed doors.
I don’t want these “visits” or this kind of “help,” even if it’s free. My mother-in-law appears every Saturday and Sunday when my husband, James, is home. She loves it when the whole family is gathered so she can shine. Occasionally, she drags along her husband, William Edward, but he seldom agrees—he has his own life, his own hobbies, and he and his wife even sleep in separate rooms.
Now picture this: I’m a young mother, our son not even a year old. He’s fussy, teething, his stomach aches, and I haven’t slept through the night in months. Yet I must “take advantage” of Grandma’s help because she’s already on her way. That means scrubbing, cooking, setting the table, and endless small talk. I’ve tried passing the chores to James, but he grumbles, “I’ve worked all week—let me rest!” So I rush between the kitchen, the child, and my mother-in-law, who lounges in her favourite armchair, cooing at her grandson.
Margaret Elizabeth arrives, plays with the child, sips tea, while I scurry like a mouse in a wheel. I cook lunch, serve it, tidy up after the child who’s spilled juice or smeared his face with mash. I must be pleasant, keep the conversation flowing, smile while she recounts theatrical anecdotes. Then, when she’s had her fill, she simply rises and leaves. Sometimes it’s three hours, sometimes thirty minutes. She departs with a sense of duty fulfilled, while I collapse from exhaustion, staring at the mountain of dishes and scattered toys.
I envy grandmothers who take their grandchildren for the weekend. That’s real help. But me? I’m cast in a play where I’m cook, cleaner, and entertainer. I’ve tried speaking to my husband, but he shrugs: “She’s my mother—we can’t just turn her away, can we?” Some advise me not to cook or clean, but how can I when she’s already at the door? I feel like a selfish ingrate, as though I’m asking too much. But is it so terrible to want a moment’s peace in my own home?
This is a cry from the heart. I don’t know how to find balance, how to explain that this “help” only drains me. Maybe I do expect too much. Yet each time I watch my mother-in-law walk away, leaving chaos in her wake, I yearn for a weekend where I could simply be a mother—not a maid. Thank you for listening.
