Grandma comes over, plays with the child, and leaves. Me? Cook, clean, entertain.
I’m at my wits’ end. Every weekend turns into an endless marathon where I must be the perfect hostess, mother, and conversationalist—all thanks to visits from my mother-in-law, who calls herself the “devoted grandmother.” She swoops in, coos over her grandson, and then off she goes, leaving me to juggle cooking, tidying, and plastering on a smile as if I’ve nothing else to worry about. This isn’t just my story, but it resonates with so many that it sparks fierce debates. And honestly? Not everyone wants this sort of “help” on their days off.
Our son has only one grandmother—my husband’s mum, Margaret Elizabeth. She’s the quintessential gran from a quaint little town near York. Once an actress in the local amateur dramatics society, she still craves the spotlight. She’ll wax lyrical about how much she adores our boy, how she misses him terribly, how she’d do anything to lend a hand. But her idea of “helping” is basically staging a one-woman show in our living room.
Margaret took early retirement, and now, with time heavy on her hands, she’s turned our home into her personal weekend entertainment. She doesn’t come to babysit or give me a breather—oh no. She comes for a “visit.” And how could I possibly say no to her? She’s his only gran, after all. It’s not like she means any harm. She’s entitled to see her grandson. Every time, she brings him a new toy, cuddles him for a bit, maybe takes the pram for a quick spin around the garden—twenty minutes tops. That’s the extent of her “assistance.” The neighbours are enchanted: “What a doting grandmother, always popping round!” But behind closed doors? Nobody sees the chaos she leaves in her wake.
I don’t want these “visits,” not even if they’re free. Margaret turns up every weekend without fail, always when my husband, James, is home. She adores a full-family audience—gives her more room to shine. Occasionally, she drags along her husband, Reginald, though he rarely indulges her. He’s got his own hobbies, his own life, and frankly, they’ve been sleeping in separate bedrooms for years.
Now picture this: I’m a new mum with a baby under a year old. He’s teething, colicky, and I’m running on fumes. But I must “make the most” of Gran’s help because she’s already en route. Cue frantic hoovering, baking, table-setting, and the endless small talk. I’ve tried getting James to pitch in, but he just grumbles, “I’ve been working all week—let me relax!” So there I am, darting between the kitchen, the baby, and Margaret, who’s perched in her favourite armchair, making goo-goo eyes at her grandson.
She arrives, plays with him for a bit, sips her tea, and I’m left sprinting like a hamster on a wheel. I cook, I serve, I wipe up whatever mess the baby’s made—spilled juice, mashed peas everywhere. All while nodding politely as she regales us with theatrical tales. Then, when she’s had her fill, she simply stands up and leaves. Sometimes it’s three hours, sometimes thirty minutes. Off she trots, duty done, while I collapse, staring at the mountain of dishes and the toy-strewn carnage.
I envy those grans who whisk their grandkids away for the weekend. Now that’s real help. But me? I’m stuck in a exhausting performance where I play chef, maid, and entertainer. I’ve tried talking to James, but he just shrugs: “She’s my mum—we can’t exactly turn her away, can we?” People tell me to stop cleaning, stop cooking, but how? She’s already at the door. I feel like a selfish monster, as if I’m ungrateful or lazy. But is it too much to ask to just breathe in my own home?
This is my scream into the void. I don’t know how to find balance, how to explain that her “help” only drains me further. Maybe I’m asking for the moon. But every time I watch Margaret waltz out, leaving disaster in her wake, I dream of a weekend where I could just be Mum—not the unpaid help. Thanks for listening.
