Grandmother: comes, plays with the child, leaves. Me: cook, clean, entertain.
I’m at my wit’s end. Every weekend becomes an endless slog, where I’m expected to be the perfect hostess, mother, and conversationalist—all because of visits from my mother-in-law, who calls herself a “loving grandmother.” She arrives, fusses over our son, and then I’m left to prepare meals, tidy up, and smile as if I’ve nothing else to do. This story isn’t mine alone, yet it resonates so deeply that it stirs a storm of emotion. People debate and argue, and I realise—not everyone wants this sort of “help” on their days off.
Our son has only one grandmother—my husband’s mother, Margaret Elizabeth. She’s the quintessential grandmother from a small market town near Gloucester. Once an actress in the local amateur dramatics society, she thrives on being the centre of attention. She never stops proclaiming how much she adores our boy, how she misses him, how eager she is to lend a hand. But her “help” is little more than social visits that feel like a stage performance.
Margaret retired early, and now, with little to occupy her days, she drifts through life in slow solitude. Our home has become her antidote to boredom. Not that she comes to mind the child or give me a moment’s rest—no, she comes “for tea.” And how can I refuse the boy’s only grandmother? It’s not as if she means any harm. She has a right to see her grandson, doesn’t she? Each time, she brings him trinkets, cuddles him, sometimes even takes the pram for a quick turn about the garden—twenty minutes, at most. That’s the extent of her “help.” The neighbours coo over her: “What a doting grandmother, always popping round!” But none see what happens behind closed doors.
I don’t want these “visits” or this sort of “help,” even if it costs nothing. She turns up every weekend without fail, always when my husband, William, is home. She thrives on having the whole family gathered—her perfect audience. Occasionally, she drags along her husband, Edward, though he seldom obliges; he has his own life, his own pastimes, and they’ve long since taken to sleeping in separate rooms.
Now picture it: I’m a young mother, our son not yet a year old. He’s teething, fussy, waking through the night, and I’m running on fumes. But I must “make the most” of grandmother’s visit because she’s already on her way. That means scrubbing, cooking, laying the table, and endless small talk. I tried shifting the tidying to William, but he grumbles, “I’ve worked all week—let me rest!” So I dart between the kitchen, the child, and Margaret, who lounges in her favourite armchair, cooing at him.
She arrives, plays with the boy, sips her tea, while I scramble like a headless chicken. I cook, serve, clean up after spills and messes, all while keeping up a cheerful front as she regales us with theatrical tales. Then, when she’s had her fill, she rises and departs—sometimes after three hours, sometimes barely thirty minutes. She leaves with the air of someone who’s done her duty, while I collapse, staring at the mountain of dishes and scattered toys.
I envy those grandmothers who whisk their grandchildren away for the weekend—now that’s real help. But me? I’m trapped in a pantomime where I play cook, maid, and entertainer. I’ve tried speaking to William, but he shrugs it off: “She’s my mother—we can’t very well turn her away, can we?” Some tell me not to tidy or cook, but how, when she’s already at the door? I feel like a selfish ingrate, as though I’m asking too much. But is it so unreasonable to want to breathe freely in my own home?
This is a cry from the heart. I don’t know how to strike a balance, how to explain that such “help” only drains me. Maybe I do expect too much. Yet every time she walks out, leaving chaos in her wake, I dream of a weekend where I could just be a mother—not a servant. Thank you for listening.
