The mother-in-law comes over, plays with the child for a bit—then leaves, perfectly satisfied. Meanwhile, I’m left to cook, clean, and keep up appearances with a forced smile…
When I stumbled upon an article titled *”I Don’t Want to Babysit My Grandkids Every Weekend,”* it felt like someone had written about my life. The topic struck a painfully familiar chord—especially for those stuck in the role of *”housewife with a toddler and a mother-in-law who’s practically glued to her.”*
My son isn’t even a year old yet. He has one grandmother—my husband’s mother, Margaret Harrington. A retired stage actress, she still carries that theatrical flair, every word dripping with drama. At every opportunity, she gushes about how much she adores her grandson. *”I’m always here for him, always ready to help!”* Sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Reality, however… is something else entirely.
Since taking early retirement, she’s had nothing but free time and empty days to fill. So she drops by—not to lend a hand, not to give me a break—just for a *”visit.”* Always on weekends, when my husband is home. She loves having *”the whole family together.”* Sometimes she drags along her husband, but he’s a quiet man, lost in his own world—they don’t even share a bedroom anymore.
Picture this: the baby’s wailing, teething in full swing, his stomach in knots, and I’m running on fumes, hollow-eyed from sleepless nights. Then I’m told, *”Help is coming!”*—only for that *”help”* to be Margaret, dressed to the nines, clutching a bag of toys and a box of fudge. She settles into her favorite armchair, scoops up her grandson, snaps photos, coos, laughs. Fine. But meanwhile, I’m expected to be the perfect hostess—spotless house, piping-hot meal ready, smile plastered on.
At first, I’d scrub the floors before her visits, bake a Victoria sponge, simmer a stew, toss a salad. Then I realised—I couldn’t keep it up. I started delegating bits to my husband. Poor man, after a gruelling week, all he craves is peace. But *”Mum’s coming”*—and just like that, he’s buffing the sink, dusting the shelves, wiping the baby’s nose.
Not once has she walked in and said, *”Go lie down, love—I’ll mind the little one.”* No. She comes to be entertained. Plays her part—then vanishes. If she gets bored? Handbag snatched, coat on, out the door. Sometimes she barely lasts twenty minutes. And what’s left for me? A mountain of dishes, an overtired child, and not an ounce of relief. Yet the neighbours sing her praises: *”What a devoted grandmother! Always there for her family.”* Oh yes, *always there*—just not where it counts.
People tell me, *”Stop cleaning. Stop cooking. Let her see the mess.”* But try it—when every stray crumb, every unwashed cup earns you a withering look. Even my husband sighs, *”Can’t we just have Mum over once a week without the fuss?”*
And so, the guilt creeps in. As if *I’m* the selfish one. As if I don’t want my child to have a grandmother. But is this *help*? No—it’s a performance. A show of love, played to an audience. *Darling grandson, perfect family!* Then—curtains down, back home to her telly. Meanwhile, I’m left with the dirty dishes, the sleepless nights, the frayed nerves.
Real help would be her taking him for the weekend. Giving me *one* proper day off. Not staging a one-woman play in my kitchen. No, she doesn’t *owe* me anything. But I’m not a maid, either—expected to host Sunday luncheons on demand. I’m a *mother*. Exhausted, sleep-deprived, barely holding it together. And while everyone raves about what a *wonderful* grandmother she is, all I want is a single weekend without the doorbell ringing—without another tin of shortbread and that saccharine *”Now then, how’s everyone getting on?”*
Thanks for listening.
