**Diary Entry – 12th June**
My daughter-in-law, Emily, is currently resting at the maternity ward while my husband, Robert, and I struggle with the grandchildren. I can’t help but suspect she checked into the hospital earlier than necessary.
My son, James, keeps insisting, *”Mum, you see how things are—you’re the only one who can help!”* Well, what choice do I have? I do what I can, but frankly, I’m running on empty.
It all started ten days ago when Emily, nine months pregnant, came down with a fever, runny nose, and sore throat. Soon after, she lost her sense of taste and smell. James works long hours at a construction site, so there was no one to mind the children. Without hesitation, Emily checked into the hospital—*”just to be safe.”* And just like that, our two little ones—Thomas, four, and Lily, two—were left with us.
I understand—health comes first, especially at 41 weeks. But why so long? Last time, she gave birth in a couple of hours—we barely made it to the hospital. Now? It’s been two weeks, and she might as well be at a spa. Binge-watching shows, making James bring her a laptop, claiming she’s *”waiting for contractions.”* Meanwhile, Robert and I are at our wits’ end trying to keep up with the little ones.
I won’t deny I’m resentful. I’m not one to complain, but the exhaustion and unfairness gnaw at me. Emily always used to leave the kids with her own mother. Now, suddenly, the paternal grandparents are the *”only hope.”*
Robert and I aren’t getting any younger. My days are a blur—changing nappies, soothing tantrums, battling over every spoonful of food. Bedtime is pure chaos. The children miss their mother, constantly asking when she’ll be back. Frankly, I don’t know anymore.
This isn’t the first time Emily’s done this. Last pregnancy, she checked in early, and we had to scramble—neighbours stepped in until I could get there. She gave birth within hours. And now, baby number three.
Six months ago, James announced another addition. I asked if they were trying to break some record. He just said, *”Mum, don’t worry, we’ve planned it all.”* Of course—plans work fine until they don’t. Then it’s straight to, *”Mum, only you can help!”* And what can I do? Say no? I can’t. But it’s wearing me down.
Thomas used to attend nursery, but Emily pulled him out, fearing he’d catch something before the birth. Now we’re stuck indoors all day—nothing but noise and mess. Even in rare moments of quiet, their shrieks echo in my head.
Lily can’t use a spoon properly—food everywhere. Thomas whines constantly, and they bicker non-stop. I look at them and wonder: how will Emily manage *three?* I can barely survive two!
Evenings are a small relief. When Robert gets home from work, he takes over while I prep meals for the next day. Cooking, cleaning, laundry—it’s relentless. Only by nine can I call James.
*”Any news?”* I ask. His reply is always the same: *”Not yet, still waiting.”* They did an ultrasound—a healthy girl. But does that mean two more weeks of this?
I won’t pretend I’m not annoyed. It’s not the pregnancy—it’s the arrangement. Emily’s treating this like a holiday—lounging around, chatting online, watching films, while we’re left holding the fort.
I told James she should just come home. *”Have the baby here—we’ll call an ambulance, like normal people!”* My friend’s daughter gave birth and was home the next day. But no—this has to be a whole production.
What does James say? *”Mum, just hang on a little longer.”* I snapped—*”She could sign herself out!”* But he won’t listen. I’m barely holding on.
So who’s right here? Emily, prioritising her health, or me, burning out under someone else’s responsibilities?
Hard to say. But one thing’s clear—my patience is threadbare.
*Lesson learned: Grandmothers aren’t built-in babysitters, and kindness has its limits.*
