Grandmother: comes, plays with the child, leaves. Me: cook, clean, entertain.
I’m at my breaking point. Every weekend turns into an endless marathon where I must be the perfect homemaker, mother, and hostess—all because of my mother-in-law’s visits. She calls herself a “loving grandma,” but all she does is play with our son while I’m left to cook, tidy up, and smile as if I have nothing else to worry about. This isn’t just my story, but one so familiar it stirs up storms of emotion. People argue, debate—not everyone wants this kind of “help” on their days off.
Our son only has one grandmother—my husband’s mother, Margaret Wilkins. She’s the quintessential nan from a small town near York. A former actress in the local theatre, she adores being the centre of attention. She never stops talking about how much she loves our boy, how she misses him, how eager she is to chip in. But her “help” is little more than a performance—a grand show of visiting, with no real support.
Margaret retired early, and now her days stretch long and empty. She lives alone, and our home has become her way to stave off boredom. But she doesn’t come to babysit or give me a moment’s peace. She comes “for a visit.” And how can I refuse the only grandmother he has? She isn’t unkind—just selfish in her way. Every time, she brings toys, cuddles him, occasionally takes the pram out for forty minutes around our garden—that’s the extent of her “help.” The neighbours coo, “What a wonderful nan, always popping by!” But no one sees what happens behind closed doors.
I don’t want these “visits,” not even if they’re free. She arrives every weekend when my husband, Oliver, is home. She loves a full house—more of an audience for her theatrics. Sometimes she drags along her husband, Geoffrey, though he rarely agrees—he’s got his own life, his own hobbies, and they barely share a room anymore.
Now picture this: I’m a young mum, our son isn’t even a year old. He’s fussy, teething, up all night—and yet, I must “take advantage” of Margaret’s “help” because she’s already on her way. That means cleaning, cooking, setting the table, endless small talk. I tried passing chores to Oliver, but he grumbles, “I’ve been working all week—let me rest!” So there I am, darting between the kitchen, the baby, and Margaret, who lounges in her favourite chair, cooing at him.
She arrives, plays with him, sips tea, while I scramble like a trapped mouse. I make lunch, serve it, clean up after the baby’s spills and messes. I must stay cheerful, keep the conversation going, smile as she tells her theatrical tales. And when she’s bored, she simply stands and leaves. Sometimes it’s three hours, sometimes thirty minutes. Off she goes, duty fulfilled, while I collapse, staring at the mountain of dishes and scattered toys.
I envy the nans who take their grandkids for weekends—that’s real help. But me? I’m stuck in a pantomime where I’m cook, cleaner, and entertainer. I’ve tried talking to Oliver, but he just shrugs: “She’s my mum, we can’t turn her away!” People tell me to stop cooking, stop cleaning—but how, when she’s already at the door? I feel like a selfish ingrate, as if I’m asking too much. But is it really too much to breathe freely in my own home?
This is a cry from the heart. I don’t know how to find balance, how to explain that this “help” only exhausts me. Maybe I do expect too much. But each time I watch Margaret walk away, leaving chaos in her wake, I dream of weekends where I could just be a mum—not a servant. Thanks for listening.
