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 smiling…
When I read an article titled *I Don’t Want to Babysit My Grandkids on Weekends*, I thought—that’s my life. The topic struck a nerve, especially for those stuck in the role of “homemaker with a small child and a mother-in-law who won’t let go.”
My son isn’t even a year old yet. He has one grandma—my husband’s mother, Margaret Wilkins. A retired stage actress, she’s still full of drama and flair in every word she speaks. At every opportunity, she gushes about how much she adores her grandson. *”I’m always here, always ready to help!”* Sounds lovely, but reality? Not so much.
Since taking early retirement, she’s had endless free time and empty days to fill. So she visits. Not to help, not to give me a break for a few hours—just to *drop by*. Always on weekends, when my husband’s home. She loves having *”the whole family together.”* Sometimes she brings her husband along, but he’s his own man, keeps to himself—they even sleep in separate rooms.
Picture this: the baby’s wailing, teething, stomachache, I’m frazzled, running on no sleep for two nights, looking like a ghost. Then I’m told, *”Help is on the way!”*—only for that *help* to be Margaret, dolled up, toting toys and a bag of marshmallows. She plonks herself in her favourite chair, scoops up the baby, snaps photos, coos, and laughs. Fine, except I’m expected to be the perfect hostess—spotless house, hot meal ready.
At first, I’d scrub the floors before she arrived, bake a cake, whip up soup and salad. Then I cracked under it. Started delegating some of it to my husband. Poor man, after a long week, all he wants is peace. But *”Mum’s coming”*—and that’s it. Drop the relaxation, polish the bathtub, dust the shelves, wipe the baby’s nose.
Not once has she shown up just to say, *”You rest—I’ll watch the little one, go lie down.”* No. She comes to be entertained. Plays for a bit, then leaves. If she gets bored? Grabs her handbag and walks out. Sometimes she’s not even stayed half an hour. Meanwhile, I’m left with a mountain of dishes, a cranky baby, and absolutely no relief. Yet the neighbours sing her praises: *”What a wonderful grandmother! Always around, so devoted.”* Oh yes—*around*, but not for the right reasons.
People advise me: *”Don’t cook. Don’t clean. Let her see the mess.”* But try it—when every speck of dust, every unwashed mug earns you her judgemental stare. Even my husband asks, *”Can’t we just have Mum over once a week?”*
And I feel guilty. Like I’m selfish. Like I don’t want my child to have a grandmother. But is this help? It’s a performance of love—for an audience. *”My darling grandson, my family!”* Then off she goes, back to her soaps. I’m left with dirty plates, sleepless nights, and frayed nerves.
Real help would be taking the baby to *her* house. Actually giving me a day off. Not staging a show in my kitchen. No, she doesn’t *have* to. But I’m not a maid either, expected to put on a Sunday lunch spread every weekend. I’m a mother—exhausted, sleep-deprived, barely standing. And while everyone insists on how *marvellous* she is, I just dream of one quiet weekend where no one knocks on the door with a box of chocolates and a chirpy, *”So, how’s everyone here?”*
Thanks for listening.
