It happened about a year and a half ago, in the thick of winter, when my son was just five months old. My husbands brother asked if he and his girlfriend could stay with us for a week. How could I possibly say no? I certainly wasnt doing cartwheels at this ideaour baby had only just landed on the planet, I wasnt sleeping, my diet consisted mainly of toast crusts, I hadnt a moment to myself, and lets face it, family members have a sixth sense for when youre absolutely knackered.
Still, I thought, maybe theyll help out a bit. Perhaps Ill even have a breather and someone to sip tea with while sharing in a collective moan about life.
Well, they arrived empty-handed, nothing in tow. Not even a little rattle for the baby. I have this principle: never show up at someones house with a young child without a token of goodwill; thats just how I was raised. But apparently, they subscribed to a very different school of thought.
They had things to do, apparently. What things? No one specified. Very mysterious.
I was the model hostesscooked, cleaned, tried not to look like I was fraying at the seams. I started to know them very well indeed. Everything seemed fairly civil, except over the next few days, not once did his girlfriend offer to lift a fingeraround the house, in the kitchen, or even with my baby so I could blitz the place with the Hoover.
Each morning, shed disappear to do errands, her boyfriend would snore away until lunchtime, my husband was off at work, and there I was, dashing about the flat balancing a baby on one hip. Then shed return, plonk herself on the sofa, and park there until darkness, either lounging or flicking through channels.
Meanwhile, Im chasing the baby, mopping up muddy footprints (oh yes, English wintersnothing but slush and shoes that track it in), cooking meals, feeding and cleaning the baby. It was a full-scale operation.
By day three, Id had enough. I confided in my husband, expecting, I dont knowa rallying cry? Instead, he just shrugged. Not really a blokes job to wade into a womans dispute, apparently.
On day four, my husband returned from work and the lovely couple skipped off to the cinema.
So, there I was, dinner prepped by my own fair hands, wolfed down my lonely plate, and just as I was marvelling at my sorry fate, they returned. They came bearing a bountyarmfuls of beer, all sorts of crisps and snacks, butand heres the cherry on topabsolutely nothing for the breastfeeding mother. Not even a sneaky slice of Battenberg.
The happy couple tucked into their feast and disappeared to watch a film, ringing my husband to join them for more fun. That, at last, was my breaking point. I cornered her for a quiet word:
Sorry, but would you mind offering to help sometime? Ive got a small baby, Im exhausted. Just peeling a potato for soup, or even just volunteering would be a start.
She shot me a look. Are you trying to have a go at me? I dont think thats very fair, you know. Im tired, too. (From what, precisely? Wearing out the sofa cushions?)
Hang on a minute, I said. You do realise this is my flat, dont you? Youre the guest here, not me.
Well, Im not listening to this.
Right, I said, trying to channel my inner headmistress. Time to pack your things and leave, then!
So they packed up and left, while I had a good, satisfying, affronted British cry over the whole thing.
So, what do you think? Is that really normal behaviour?
