My grandchildren only see fruit once a month, and she buys posh food for her cats! my daughter-in-law huffs, as if Im made of granite instead of flesh and blood. Apparently, my crime is feeding my cats something better than the dregs at the bottom of the supermarket shelf, while her children allegedly subsist on memories of apples.
But and its a fairly substantial but her children have a mother and father. Its not unreasonable to expect parents to provide the odd banana or two. My cats have only me. When I once dared suggest to my son and his wife that they perhaps pump the brakes a bit on their mission to single-handedly boost the UKs birth rate, I was told, in no uncertain terms, to mind my own business. So I am minding it, thank you very much. I feed my cats, treat myself to a custard cream, and tune out the latest maternal tirade.
My sons wedding a hasty affair happened when my daughter-in-law, Emily, was already expecting. They claimed it was an all-consuming, story-book love, and the impending baby was just a happy accident. As if anyone was fooled. I raised an eyebrow, but otherwise kept schtum. Hes a grown man, after all. Let him wallow in his life choices.
Before her maternity leave, Emily worked as a cashier at the local Tesco. She spent most of her pregnancy nipping in and out of sick leave, moaning that having to deal with irate customers all day was unbearable. Given Emilys personality lets just say patience isnt her strong suit I can well believe half the postcode ended up arguing at her till.
But honestly, I didnt care much what Emily was like we lived separately. I was in my own little flat, while my son and his wife commandeered a nice, shiny three-bed house with a mortgage big enough to make a bank manager sweat. Before all the nuptials and baby talk, my son and I had lived together in my own three-bed flat, which I owned. When he proposed, we sold the old place, I downsized to a cosy one-bed, and my son splashed his share of the cash on that enormous new place. I did try to talk him out of such an extravagant move What do you want with all those bedrooms? but he wasnt listening. Then, a couple of weeks later, the impending wedding and baby news dropped, and, well the logic became painfully clear.
Mortgages, of course, dont pay themselves. My son handled the bills, because Emily constantly unwell and then off on maternity didnt bring in a penny. She was, however, stellar at spending what little he had. Unsurprisingly, their finances were as threadbare as my patience.
I kept well out of it. No sharing household chores, no debates over pots and pans, just a cheerful wave from across the street. After all, hed chosen his life. They lived as they wanted, I lived as I liked.
My sons place wasnt far from mine, so hed occasionally pop in for dinner after work a fair swap, in my book, since Emily couldnt stand the smell of cooking and pretty much avoided the stove at all costs.
When the first grandchild arrived, I thought Id lend a hand (its what you do, isnt it?), but Emily all but shoved me back out the door Ill manage. My mum and Google are enough, thanks. Fine by me. From then on, I turned up only for grandchild-cuddles and to drop off the odd box of biscuits. Offer help? Not on your life.
My son took on the mortgage and a growing family. He stoicly plodded on, never complaining aloud, but if sympathy could stretch his salary, theyd have been rolling in it. I tried to pep him up: Things will improve when the little ones at nursery and Emily goes back to work. Just hang in there.
Turns out, Emily had no plans whatsoever to return to work. Before the first was out of nappies, she was expecting again. I gently hinted that their enthusiasm for childrearing might perhaps be, er, overzealous. The response was as subtle as a marching band: Mind your own blooming business! Were coping and youre not asked for help. Point taken.
Our relationship which had never exactly sparkled slid even further into the doldrums after that. My son occasionally brought the elder grandchild round, but that was the extent of it.
I busied myself with my own life. Whenever my son did call, it was usually to quietly grumble about being skint, and hint ever so politely at tensions at home. What advice does one offer? Divorce? Therapy? A lottery ticket? If only life were that simple.
The second grandson arrived, and this time I wasnt even invited to the hospital or the homecoming. That stung, but I kept my dignity no point making a spectacle of myself. If Emily wanted to freeze me out, so be it. My son didnt even attempt a peep of protest.
My first sight of grandchild number two was when hed already mastered sitting up. For the oldests birthday, I turned up with gifts, some sausage rolls for the table, and a smile. Emily drifted about with a face like thunder, as if she was reluctantly hosting the Queen herself. After a couple of hours, I made my excuses and went home.
Frankly, I no longer had the energy to chase after stroppy girls, especially ones set on making me the villain in their kitchen-sink drama. I saw my oldest grandchild when my son brought him over. The youngest stayed at home; Emilys rules.
Money woes never lifted in their household. The much-lauded child benefit and government handouts were never the miracle fix. My sons sighs grew heavier Emily cant save for toffee, and Im hardly a City banker, Mum. Still, I kept my lips zipped.
Most recently, I bumped into Emily at Sainsburys and noticed she was, yet again, pregnant. Her gaze wandered to my basket.
Typical! Her own grandchildren see fruit once a month, and shes buying her cats gourmet food, she hissed before flouncing off, dragging the eldest behind her.
But really, whose fault is it that I can afford a few tins of posh Whiskas, while they can barely stretch to apples? Emily knows theyre struggling, the mortgage is a millstone and moneys short, yet shes popping out children like its a patriotic duty. Maybe a part-time shift wouldnt kill her? But apparently the only person meant to feel guilty or responsible is me.
I suspect Emily may ban me from seeing the grandchildren entirely soon after all, Ive clearly failed her fantasy checklist of a proper English grandmother, especially one eager to donate all her crumbs and every spare pound to their cause. Its important to find ones own sense, but it seems neither Emily nor, sadly, my son, have stumbled across theirs yet. And thats the bitterest pill of all.
