My mother-in-law nearly sent my son to an early grave with her *helpful* remedies. And my husband? He just shrugged it off.
Explaining things to Valerie Anne—my dear mother-in-law—is like talking to a brick wall. She seems utterly convinced that her blind *affection* and home-brewed medical wisdom couldn’t possibly put our child in harm’s way. Sure, we share the same goal—raising a healthy, happy grandson. But her methods? They’re turning my life into a circus and my son into her personal guinea pig.
It all started when little Alfie began nursery. He’d just turned three, and—as kids do—he caught every bug going. Two days in, and boom: temperature, sniffles, cough, chickenpox. I’d just returned to work at the insurance firm after maternity leave, and no one there was handing out sympathy. Sick days? My problem entirely. So I asked Valerie Anne for help. She’s retired, lives nearby, and was *thrilled* to oblige.
But it quickly became clear that her medical expertise began and ended with *Doctor Google* and her mate Linda from bingo night. She’d “treat” Alfie on her own: syrups, drops, mystery pills—whatever the telly or Linda swore by. I left detailed instructions: what, when, dosage. She ignored them. And I let it slide. Because what choice did I have?
Until the day Alfie started choking.
I came home early—call it mother’s intuition or God giving me a nudge. His face was swollen, eyes bulging, lips turning blue. Allergic reaction. I grabbed the emergency EpiPen I kept in the fridge, jabbed it into his thigh. Thirty minutes later, he could breathe again.
I nearly lost my mind. Then I opened Valerie Anne’s *medicine cabinet* and—well, mystery solved. She’d dosed him with cough syrup, “immune-boosting” drops (thanks, Linda), and some rainbow-coloured sweets she’d been *convinced* would do the trick. Those drops? Pure poison for him.
I couldn’t stay quiet anymore.
*“Valerie Anne, please—don’t give Alfie anything I haven’t approved. I leave labelled medicines for a reason. He could’ve died!”*
*“Oh, love, don’t be dramatic! I just wanted him better quicker. It’s just a cold—what harm’s a bit of syrup?”*
*“The harm is *this*! Why didn’t you call an ambulance?!”*
*“Well, what if it was nothing? Besides, you got here in time, didn’t you? Since when did a grandmother’s love kill anyone?”*
Cue my husband, Simon, strolling in.
*“What’s all the shouting?”*
Valerie Anne turned on the waterworks.
*“Your wife says I’m neglecting Alfie. Suppose she’ll have to look after him herself now.”*
*“Liz, come on,”* Simon cut in. *“Mum helps with everything—cooking, babysitting. Why’re you having a go?”*
*“Because her *help* nearly killed him! She gave him so much junk he had a full-blown allergic reaction. Five more minutes and he’d have been in A&E.”*
*“But he’s fine now! Mum won’t do it again, right?”*
*“Course not. I only ever meant well…”*
Then Simon dropped the mic.
*“Right, enough drama. Let’s have dinner—I’m starving.”*
I wanted to scream. Instead, I seethed in silence. When Valerie Anne left, I tried talking sense into Simon.
*“Do you even grasp what happened? Did you *see* your son’s face?”*
*“Yeah. But Mum promised she won’t do it again.”*
*“Promised? And when she hands him Lord-knows-what tomorrow?”*
*“You know she adores Alfie. What d’you want me to do—hire a nanny?”*
*“YES.”*
*“So you don’t trust my mum, but some stranger’s fine?”*
*“After today? Absolutely. Because at least a *stranger* won’t play chemist with my child. I’ll start looking. And if you’d seen him gasping for air, you’d understand.”*
That night, sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, Alfie was blue-lipped again, me helpless, stuck in a lift while his *devoted* grandmother force-fed him more “remedies.”
By morning, I was on my laptop, searching for nannies. A stranger? Maybe. But I could *train* a stranger. And most importantly—a stranger wouldn’t lie about what they’d fed my son.
Valerie Anne might’ve meant well. But as they say—the road to A&E is paved with good intentions.
