Grandma comes over, plays with the kid, then leaves. Me? I cook, clean, entertain.
I’m at my breaking point. Every weekend turns into a never-ending marathon where I have to be the perfect host, mum, and conversationalist—all because of my mother-in-law’s visits. She calls herself the “devoted grandma,” swanning in for cuddles with our son while I’m left scrambling to put food on the table, tidy up, and paste on a smile like I’ve got nothing else to worry about. This might not be my exact story, but it’s one so many women know, sparking fierce debates. Because let’s face it—not everyone wants this kind of “help” on their days off.
Our little boy only has one grandma—my husband’s mum, Margaret Anne. She’s the quintessential small-town gran, hailing from a little place near Manchester. A retired amateur theatre actress who loves the spotlight, she never misses a chance to gush about how much she adores our son, how she misses him, how she’s *always* there to lend a hand. But her version of “help”? More like a one-woman show where I’m the unpaid stage crew.
Margaret Anne retired early, and now she’s got too much time on her hands. Living alone, her days drag, so our house has become her personal entertainment. Not that she’s here to babysit or give me a breather—oh no. She’s here *as a guest*. And how can I say no to the only grandma he’s got? It’s not like she’s doing anything wrong, right? She *deserves* to see her grandson. So every visit, she brings him cheap toys, cuddles him for a bit, maybe pushes his pram around the garden for twenty minutes—and that’s the grand extent of her “help.” The neighbours eat it up: “Oh, what a doting gran, always visiting!” But they don’t see what happens behind closed doors.
I don’t want this kind of “guest” or this kind of “help,” even if it’s free. She swans in every weekend when my husband, Thomas, is home—because of course she loves a full audience. Occasionally, she drags along her ex-husband, Malcolm, but he rarely bothers—he’s got his own life, his own hobbies, and honestly, him and Margaret have barely spoken in years.
Picture this: I’m a new mum, my son’s not even one yet—teething, colicky, sleepless nights. But I have to “make the most” of Grandma’s visit because she’s already on her way. That means scrubbing the house, cooking a roast, laying out the good china, and nodding along to her theatrical anecdotes. I’ve tried getting Thomas to help, but he just grumbles, “I’ve been at work all week—give me a break!” So there I am, darting between the kitchen, the baby, and Margaret, who’s perched in her favourite armchair cooing at him like she’s in a period drama.
She breezes in, plays with him for a bit, sips her tea—meanwhile, I’m running around like a headless chicken. Cooking, serving, wiping up juice spills and mushed-up baby food. I have to stay cheerful, keep up small talk, smile while she tells the same old stories. Then, when she’s had her fill? She just gets up and leaves. Sometimes it’s a three-hour performance, sometimes barely thirty minutes. Off she goes, job done—while I’m left staring at the mess, exhausted.
I know some grandmas actually *help*—taking the kids overnight, giving parents a real break. But me? I get a one-woman West End production where I’m the maid, the cook, and the entertainment. I’ve tried talking to Thomas, but he just shrugs: “She’s my mum, we can’t exactly turn her away, can we?” People tell me, “Just don’t clean, don’t cook!” But how, when she’s already at the door? I feel ungrateful, selfish—like I’m asking too much. But all I want is to *breathe* in my own home.
This isn’t a complaint—it’s a scream into the void. I don’t know how to fix it, how to explain that this “help” just drains me. Maybe I *am* expecting too much. But every time I watch her walk out, leaving chaos in her wake, I dream of a weekend where I could just *be* Mum—not the unpaid staff. Thanks for listening.
