Two grown-up kids and still not a shred of help from them. They breeze in for a visit, treating my house like a five-star spaout to unwind and have a holiday. Meanwhile, I become the unofficial housekeeper: welcoming committee, chef, chambermaid, and general dogsbody rolled into one. They dont lift a finger, let alone hand over any cash. The closest they get to contributing is leaving behind an empty teacup and a thank you.
I’ve got a son and a daughtergrown adults with their own families. My son has two kids, my daughters managed one so far. They all flock to my cottage in Oxfordshire with alarming frequency. With each passing year, these reunions feel more like an Olympic event and less like a family get-together.
My children treat my place as if its a mini escape to the countryside. I end up running the whole showfood shopping, cooking, getting the guest beds sorted. Its always been a family tradition to treat visitors to a full spread and a cosy stay. Mum used to do it just the same: a groaning dining table and spotlessly fluffed pillows. But my sister and I never took advantagewe could see Mum was flagging, so we washed dishes, chased after children, helped tidy, and even did the groceries. We never had to be asked; it was just obvious. Not once did Mum say anything.
But now, my own children turn up, and if they happen to swill out a mug, Im supposed to fall over with gratitude. As for my son-in-law and daughter-in-law, I’ve no complaintstheyre guests, not really family, so fine to be on holiday mode. Its the fact that my son and daughter have absolutely no instinct to chip in. They arrive, devour the roast, watch the telly, and drop the grandkids with me while they pop out for a stroll or off to visit friends. Meanwhile, Im left sinking under mountains of washing up, prepping two meals a day, scrubbing the floors, all while keeping the herd of grandchildren entertained. Its chaos.
Each visit gets harder. My back aches and standing over the cooker for ages isnt as easy as it used to be. Trouble is, my upbringing stops me from slamming the brakes and refusing to play hostess. You just dont welcome guests with fetch your own tea in this house, do you? I dread the weekends, even as I eagerly look forward to them, then it takes a fortnight to recover from the ordeal.
I could use a hand, honestly. But the idea of actually asking makes me cringe. Im sure my children would take offence or start thinking I dont appreciate them. Which is ridiculousI do, but heaving everything on my own is starting to push it. And theres always more to do: things I cant manage myself anymore. Yet, asking is simply too embarrassing. Besides, the kids have jobstheyve earned a break, havent they?
Im at a loss. My overly polite upbringing is a right nuisanceit wont let me just say help, please! Doing everything on my own is exhausting, truth be told. I need help, whatever way you look at it. But admitting it feels shameful; in our family, you just soldier on, no complaints, keep calm and carry on. Thats how our parents raised us. Now, Im stuck suffering in silence, unable to get out of my own way. Its dreadful, yet somehow not quite enough to prompt me to act. I cant for the life of me understand why my kids dont just notice Im not exactly the spring chicken I once was. They ought to realise Im not twenty anymore, nor do I possess two hearts (one would suffice, at this point). A shame, reallytheres no one to get offended, only me quietly hurt. I wish I knew how to fix this.
