**Diary Entry – 12th September**
Bloody exhausting, this is. My daughter-in-law, Emily, is tucked up in the maternity ward like she’s on some spa retreat, while my husband, Robert, and I are run ragged looking after the grandkids. Can’t shake the thought she checked in early just to get out of parenting.
Our son, James, says, *”Mum, you *know* how it is—you’re the only one who can help!”* Easy for him—he’s off on construction sites all day. Meanwhile, here I am, sixty-two and knackered, minding two toddlers like some unpaid nanny.
Ten days back, Emily—full nine months pregnant—started moaning about a fever, sore throat, and losing her sense of taste. Next thing we know, she’s checked into the hospital ‘for monitoring’, leaving us with the kids: a four-year-old and a two-year-old. Last time, she barely made it to the ward before popping the baby out in two hours flat. Now? Two bloody weeks she’s been in there, binge-watching telly, demanding her laptop like she’s on holiday. Meanwhile, we’re knee-deep in nappies and tantrums.
I’m not one to complain, but this isn’t right. Emily *always* left the kids with *her* mum before. Now suddenly, we’re the ‘last hope’. Robert and I aren’t spring chickens—I’m run off my feet from dawn till dusk. The little one smears food everywhere, and the elder one wails if his spoon’s the ‘wrong’ colour. Mealtimes are a battle, bedtime’s a circus. They keep asking when Mummy’s coming home. I wish I knew.
She pulled this stunt last pregnancy, too—checked in early, had the baby within hours. Now here we are again, baby number three. When James told me six months back, I said, *”Christ, are you aiming for a football team?”* He just shrugged: *”Mum, don’t fret, we’ve got it sorted.”* Sorted my foot. The second things go pear-shaped, it’s *”Mum, we need you!”* Like I’ve got a choice.
The eldest was in nursery, but Emily yanked him out—‘didn’t want him catching anything’ before the birth. Now we’re housebound, drowning in chaos. Even when they’re quiet, I still hear their shrieks ringing in my ears.
By evening, Robert takes over while I prep meals for tomorrow. Cooking, cleaning, washing—it’s relentless. By nine, I finally call James: *”Well? Any news?”* *”Nope, still waiting,”* he says. Scans show a healthy girl. So what’s the holdup? Two weeks in hospital, really?
It’s not the pregnancy that galls me—it’s the sheer audacity. Emily’s lounging about, chatting online, watching films, while we’re breaking our backs. I told James: *”Get her discharged. If she goes into labour, we’ll call an ambulance—people do it all the time!”* His mate’s wife was home the next day. But no—*”Mum, just hang in there, it’s not safe to leave now.”* Safe for *who*?
I’m at my wits’ end. So who’s in the right here? The mum-to-be ‘prioritising her health’, or the grandparents stretched to breaking point? Hard to say. But one thing’s clear—patience has its limits. And mine’s long gone.
**Lesson:** No good deed goes unpunished—especially when family’s involved.
