I Told You to Stop After Your Third Child—Even Bought You Special Pills Hoping You’d Rethink Your Decision, but My Efforts Went Unnoticed: How Do You Deal with a Mother-in-Law Who Interferes in Her Children’s Lives Like This?

Author Walton MerrittReading 3 minViews 1

I did warn you to stop after your third child, didnt I? I even went out and got you those special tablets, hoping youd pause for a bit of reflection. But clearly, my efforts were about as fruitful as a British summer.

How many children do you plan to produce? my mother-in-law asked, her sarcasm oozing all over my freshly cleaned kitchen floor.

Lets skip the sarcasm. Are you genuinely cross because Peter told you about my pregnancy? replied Monica, with almost saintly calm.

Of course, Im upset! I told you to stop at three. I bought you those special pills myself, hoping theyd make you think twice, but apparently, I might as well have flushed cash down the loo, lamented my mother-in-law.

We know your feelings on the matter, and were not trying to go against nature, said Monica, trying for optimism.

Are you having me on? Well, dont expect my help anymore! Maria yelled, audibly enough for the neighbours to get the gist.

Monica was about to retort when the phone interrupted.

By the way, Maria was never exactly Mater of the Year. She didn’t take the grandchildren out for ice creams, hardly spent time with them, and the only gifts she ever brought were grudgingly parted with, snuggled amidst birthday wrapping paper. Truthfully, Monica and Peter didnt need her help financially. Peters job paid rather handsomely, and Monica ran a small business from home (with the occasional half-day spent wrangling emails and children symphoniously). Once things picked up, she hired an assistant to wrangle the kids when she was swamped. Everything would be splendid if not for Marias particular brand of frosty attitude.

From day one, Maria didnt fancy her daughter-in-law, and harboured hopes Peter would come to his senses and divorce. Her dreams faded along with the first grandchild then the second, then a third, popping up like unexpected British weather.

In Monicas view, Marias fundamental issue with a fourth descendant was money. It signalled Peters wages would be allocated towards growing WhatsApp groups and snack cupboards, not foot massages for Maria or a fresh coat of paint for her conservatory. She quite enjoyed her comforts! Peter lined up her dental appointments, paid for monthly spa trips, and even gave her home an annual touch-up. Maria feared the bank of Son was about to declare ‘insufficient funds’. Oh, the horror of potentially having to skip her regular pedicure!

Monica did her best to rise above the storm cloud that was Marias opinion, but anyone would crack if they were subjected to such regular drizzle. Still, nothing Maria did would alter Peter and Monicas decision. There would be a fourth child on the way like it or lump it.

How do you handle a mother who inserts herself into her grown childrens business like shes auditioning for The Great British Meddle-Off?

Why I Don’t Want to Leave My Children with Their Grandmothers I’m 31 years old, a full-time mum raising two daughters aged 3 and 1 by choice—and here’s why. When I had my first child, I naively assumed the grandmothers would naturally step in to help. In reality, they were more of a hindrance than a help, and I found myself managing on my own. Here’s how it went for me: After my daughter’s birth, and especially once we got home, I felt completely helpless—not knowing where to even start with a newborn. What seems basic to me now, after two kids, felt overwhelming back then. Naturally, there weren’t any “instructions” on caring for a baby written in my head! I expected the older generation to have all the answers—how to change, bathe, feed, trim nails, and care for a baby. But it quickly became clear their advice conflicted—even about bath time! Over time, I mastered nappies and more, and I’m grateful to both my mum and mother-in-law. They still make me smile with their very “British granny” advice: Granny 1 (my mum-in-law): – Recite a prayer over the bath water and only let the child drink that! – Six months later, I bought a water filter. – Only use grey soap on the baby, and apply it to any rash. – Your children are poorly because you’re raising them “wrong” (though never clear why!). – If your baby cries, take them to a local “healer”—that’ll fix it. Granny 2 (my mum): – Babies crying? Ignore it—it’ll pass. – Fever? Give paracetamol, problem solved. – You buy them far too many toys, you know. – I can babysit Saturdays at 1pm, but only until 4—then I’m off to the cinema! – Sweets and salty snacks for the baby? Why not, start at 6 months. Let them try anything if they reach for it. I love my mum but I do now question a lot about my own upbringing! There were times I was left with my gran and subsisted on pasta all day, while at home it was always fatty foods. My coughs were sometimes ignored until I ended up ill…and now I understand my tummy troubles as an adult! The bottom line is: I get on with our grannies, but I can’t imagine leaving my kids with them for more than a few hours. Closely supervised? Sure. But am I overprotective? Maybe—but I’m just not comfortable with the alternative!

Why Should It Matter Who Cared for Grandma? Legally, That Flat Should Be Mine! – My Mum Argues Bitterly With Me My own mum is threatening to take me to court. Why? Because Grandma’s flat didn’t go to her—or even to me—but to my daughter. My mum thinks it’s a grave injustice. She insists Grandma’s flat should rightfully be hers. But Grandma chose otherwise. Why? Probably because my husband and I lived with Grandma and cared for her during her final five years. My mum could quite rightfully be called selfish. Her wants and interests have always come before anyone else’s. She’s had three marriages but just two children: me and my younger sister. My sister and I have a great relationship. But things with Mum are a different story. I can’t even remember my dad. He divorced Mum when I was only two. Until I was six, Mum and I lived at Grandma’s. For some reason, I thought Grandma was terribly unpleasant—maybe because Mum was always in tears. Only later, as an adult, did I learn that Grandma was actually a good person, just desperate to set her daughter straight. Later, Mum married again and we moved in with my stepdad. That’s when my sister was born. Mum stayed with him for seven years, then divorced him too. This time we didn’t return to Grandma’s; instead my stepdad went off to work and let us stay in his flat. Three years later, Mum married a third time and we moved in with her new husband. Obviously, he wasn’t thrilled about his new wife’s kids, but he never treated us badly—he simply ignored us. So did Mum, who was busy being wrapped up in her new relationship, riddled with jealousy and dramatic outbursts. Every month, Mum would start packing her bags, but my stepdad always managed to talk her out of leaving. My sister and I got used to it, and eventually stopped caring. I took over raising my sister because Mum had no time. Luckily, both our grandmothers helped us a lot. I eventually left for university accommodation, and my sister went to live with Grandma. Dad always helped her, but Mum only called us at Christmas. I grew up accepting Mum as she was—the kind of parent who never worried about us. My sister, however, could never forgive her, and especially resented that Mum didn’t show up for her graduation. We both grew up. My sister married and moved to another city. My boyfriend and I lived together for ages but were in no hurry to wed, renting a place and visiting Grandma often. We were close, but I tried never to be a nuisance. Then Grandma fell ill and was hospitalised. The doctors told me she needed plenty of care, so I started coming daily—bringing groceries, cooking, cleaning, and, most importantly, making sure she took her medicines. For six months, this was life. Sometimes my boyfriend came too and handled the odd DIY job. One day, Grandma suggested we move in to save money for our own home. Of course we agreed. Grandma liked my boyfriend, and we all got on well. Six months later, I found out I was pregnant. We decided to keep the baby and Grandma was overjoyed about her great-grandchild. We had a simple wedding and took the family out to a café—my mum didn’t even show up or call with congratulations. When my daughter was just two months old, Grandma fell and broke her leg. Caring for a newborn and Grandma was almost impossible alone, so I called Mum for help. She refused, saying she wasn’t well and would come by another time—a promise she never kept. Six months later, Grandma suffered a stroke. Suddenly, she was bedridden. The care was gruelling, and I don’t know how I’d have managed without my husband. Grandma slowly regained some mobility and speech, and lived another two and a half years—long enough to watch her great-granddaughter learn to walk. She passed away quietly in her sleep, leaving us heartbroken. Mum only came to the funeral. A month later, she turned up demanding that I move out so she could claim the flat as her own. She was sure she’d inherit it—completely unaware Grandma had signed the property over to my daughter after she was born, leaving Mum without a penny. Mum was furious, demanding I hand over the flat or she’d sue. “Look how cunning you are! You tricked that old woman out of her flat and now you’re living there yourself! You won’t get away with this! It makes no difference who cared for Grandma—the flat should be mine!” But Mum won’t be getting that flat. I know this for sure—I’ve checked everything with the solicitor and notary. We will stay in the home Grandma gave us. And if our next child is a girl, we’ll give her Grandma’s name.