My mother-in-law comes over, plays with the child for a bit, and leaves happy. Meanwhile, I’m left to cook, clean, and keep a smile on my face…
When I read an article titled *I Don’t Want to Babysit My Grandchildren on Weekends*, I thought—that’s my life. The topic felt painfully familiar, especially for those stuck in the role of “housewife with a toddler and a mother-in-law clinging to her side.”
My son isn’t even a year old yet. He has one grandmother—my husband’s mother, Margaret Elizabeth. A retired stage actress, she still brings the drama, complete with exaggerated sighs and theatrics. At every opportunity, she declares how much she *adores* her grandson. “I’m always here, always ready to help!” Sounds lovely, but the reality? Entirely different.
Since taking early retirement, she’s had endless free time and nothing to fill it. So, she visits. Not to help, not to give me a few hours’ break—just to *drop by*. Always on weekends, when my husband’s home. She loves an “audience,” as she calls it. Sometimes she drags along her husband, but he’s off in his own world—they even sleep in separate rooms.
Picture this: the baby’s wailing, teething, stomach ache, I’m strung out from two sleepless nights, looking like death warmed over. Then I’m told, “Help is coming!”—only for that “help” to be Margaret Elizabeth, dressed to the nines, clutching a teddy bear and a box of chocolates. She plonks herself in her favourite armchair, scoops up the baby, snaps photos, coos, laughs. Fine, except I’m expected to play the gracious hostess—house spotless, tea brewing, smile fixed in place.
At first, I’d scrub the floors before her visits, bake a Victoria sponge, whip up a full roast. Then I realised—I couldn’t keep it up. So I shoved some chores onto my husband. Poor bloke, after a brutal week at work, all he wants is peace. But “Mum’s coming” means drop everything—polish the taps, dust the shelves, wipe the toddler’s snotty nose.
Not once has she ever said, “Go rest, I’ll mind the baby.” Never. She comes to entertain herself. Plays for a bit—then vanishes. If she’s bored? Handbag over her arm, out the door. Sometimes she doesn’t last half an hour. And I’m left with a mountain of dishes, an overtired child, and not an ounce of relief. Meanwhile, the neighbours gush, “What a doting grandmother! Always there, so devoted.” Oh yes—*there*, just not where it counts.
People tell me, “Stop cleaning. Stop cooking. Let her see the mess.” Try that when she’s side-eyeing every crumb, every unwashed mug. Even my husband sighs, “Can’t we just have Mum over *once* a week?”
And I’m left feeling guilty. Like I’m selfish. Like I don’t want my child to have a grandmother. But is this help? No—it’s a performance. Darling grandson, happy family! Then home she goes, straight to her telly. I’m left with the dirty plates, the sleepless nights, the frayed nerves.
Real help? That’s when Grandma takes the baby for the day. When she *actually* gives you a day off. Not when she turns your kitchen into her personal stage. No, she doesn’t *owe* me anything. But I’m not her maid, either, expected to host Sunday lunch like some posh B&B. I’m a mother. Exhausted, sleep-deprived, barely keeping it together. And while everyone sings her praises, all I want is *one* weekend without the doorbell ringing, without a cheery “Hellooo, how’s my favourite little family?” and a tin of biscuits shoved into my hands.
Thanks for listening.
