The daughter-in-law is lounging in the maternity ward, while my husband and I are at our wits’ end with the grandkids. Sometimes I wonder if she checked into that hospital early on purpose—just to get a break!
“Mum, you’re the only one who can help right now!” says my son, leaving sixty-year-old Margaret Turner from Cheltenham with little choice. “What else can I do? I help as much as I can. But I’ve got no energy left…”
Ten days ago, her daughter-in-law, Emily, in her ninth month of pregnancy, came down with a fever, a runny nose, and a sore throat. Soon after, she lost her sense of taste and smell. Margaret’s son, Oliver, works long hours on a construction site, so there was no one else to look after the kids. Without a second thought, Emily checked herself into the hospital—for “observation.” And just like that, the two little ones—aged four and two—were handed over to Grandma and Grandpa.
“I get it, 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 she’s been lounging there for two weeks like it’s a spa retreat. Binge-watching telly, making her husband lug in a laptop, saying she’s ‘waiting for contractions.’ Meanwhile, we’re here with the grandkids, running out of hiding spots…”
Margaret tells the story with a mix of exhaustion and frustration. She’s not one to complain, but the unfairness of it all is wearing her down. Emily used to leave the kids with her own mum. But now, suddenly, it’s the *paternal* grandparents who are the “last hope.”
“Vivian and I (that’s my husband) aren’t getting any younger. I’m run ragged from dawn till dusk—one’s in nappies, the other screams if the spoon’s the wrong colour. Mealtime’s a battle, bath time’s a war zone, and bedtime? Pure circus. They haven’t forgotten their mum—they keep asking when she’s coming back. Frankly, so do I…”
Margaret remembers the last time Emily checked into the hospital “early.” Back then, there was just one child, who had to be hastily handed off to a neighbour until Grandma could take over. Ninety minutes after the call, the baby was born. Quick as lightning. And now—here we are again, baby number three.
“Six months ago, Oliver announced another one was on the way. I said, ‘What, are you aiming for a world record?’ He just shrugged, ‘Don’t worry, Mum, we’ve got it all planned.’ Oh, sure. Everything’s ‘planned’ when it’s smooth sailing. But the moment there’s trouble—‘Mum, you’re our only hope!’ What am I supposed to do? Say no? I can’t. But it’s *hard*.”
The eldest used to go to nursery, but Emily pulled him out—didn’t want germs before the birth. Margaret can’t ferry him all the way across town, so they’re stuck at home. And home? Pure chaos. Even when the kids finally quiet down, their shrieks still echo in her head.
“The little one can’t use a spoon—porridge everywhere. The big one whinges all day. They fight, they squabble. I look at them and think: how will Emily handle *three*? I can barely survive two!”
Evenings, when Grandpa gets home from work, he takes over, and Margaret preps meals for the next day. Feeding, washing, tidying, scrubbing—it’s nearly nine before she can call her son.
“So—has she had the baby yet?” she asks. “No,” Oliver says. “Same as yesterday. Waiting. Ultrasound says it’s a girl, healthy.” Two more weeks of this? Really?
Margaret doesn’t hide her annoyance. It’s not the baby—it’s the *planning*. To her, Emily’s treating this like a holiday—lazing about in hospital, chatting on mum forums, watching films, while the homefront crumbles.
“Tell her to check out!” she snaps to Oliver. “She can have the baby at home—we’ll call an ambulance, like normal people do! Your cousin’s wife was back home the *next day*! My friend’s daughter had hers faster than a takeaway order! But *we* need a whole production!”
“And what does Oliver say?”
“What *can* he say? ‘Mum, just hang in there, it’s almost over, she can’t leave now.’ I said, ‘Let her sign a release and come home!’ But no—he won’t hear it. I’m running on fumes here…”
So who’s in the right? The daughter-in-law, prioritising her health and checking in early? Or the mother-in-law, buckling under the weight of borrowed motherhood?
Hard to say. But one thing’s clear—Granny’s patience is hanging by a thread.
