I passed out at a family do because my bloke wouldn’t lift a finger with our newborn to give me a kip.
My husband, Simon, and I were supposed to be in this together when we had our first kid, but he left me hanging. Things got so bad I nearly walked out—until something proper shocking happened right in front of everyone. Thank God, outside help sorted us out in the end.
Here’s how it went. I’m Emily, 25, and this was one of the most humbling wake-up calls of my life. Rewind a bit—me and my husband, James, 29, had our gorgeous little girl, Poppy, three weeks back. She’s my everything, but here’s the rub: every time I ask her dad to help, he just says, “Let me have a breather—paternity leave’s barely a fortnight!” I’ve been running on fumes, dealing with all the night feeds and nappies alone. It’s knackered me more than I ever thought possible.
Poppy won’t sleep longer than an hour, and James hasn’t so much as held her for a full feed! What stings is he swore we’d split everything down the middle. But lately, his idea of “help” is putting the kettle on—if that.
It’s got so bad I’ve nodded off while making tea or folding washing! Then last Saturday, things came to a head in front of everyone.
Right, so we threw a little do at my mum’s to celebrate Poppy’s first month. Family and mates were finally meeting her, and it should’ve been lovely. But James was all over the place, telling anyone who’d listen, “I needed this time off—imagine working *and* looking after a baby!” I was gobsmacked but too shattered to call him out there and then.
I tried keeping up, but my body gave up. One minute I was queasy and sweating, the next—lights out. Proper fainted in the middle of the party.
Came round to everyone flapping. Someone shoved a slice of victoria sponge at me, muttering about low blood sugar. I waved them off, saying I was just knackered, but caught James glowering. Dunno what his problem was, but I reckon he cared more about looking bad than me actually being poorly.
People kept fussing, but I brushed ’em off—I’m so used to handling everything alone, help felt weird.
Dead silence in the car home. Then James blew his top the second we got in, ranting about *me* making *him* look rubbish. “D’you have any idea how this makes me seem? Now everyone thinks I’m not pulling my weight!” He even had a go at me for crawling into bed instead of rowing with him. Next morning? Ice-cold. Ignored me and Poppy, sulking because *his* feelings were hurt.
“I’m not the villain here, James. I just needed sleep,” I said, trying to keep steady. He sneered, “You still don’t get it. You drop off, and *I* deal with the fallout!”
That was it. I was done. Packed a bag to stay at Mum’s—until the doorbell went. Of course, *I* answered it.
Turns out it was my in-laws, dead serious, with some woman I didn’t know. “We need a chat,” my mother-in-law said, marching in. She introduced the woman as a proper nanny they’d booked for two weeks. “She’s here to teach James how to look after Poppy and run a house,” MIL said.
I was speechless. My in-laws had been so worried they’d staged a full-blown intervention!
Before I could process that, they handed me a brochure for a swanky spa in the Cotswolds. “You’re going for a week. Rest up—you need it,” my father-in-law insisted.
James looked like he’d been hit by a bus. This wasn’t just about me getting a break—they were giving him a proper boot camp.
I didn’t argue. That week was heaven—massages, lie-ins, *silence*. Meanwhile, back home, the nanny had James changing nappies, making baby mush, even doing night shifts. His parents stayed, sharing their own newborn war stories and drilling teamwork into him.
When I got back, James actually *apologised*. Then he hit me with this: “Sold my footie memorabilia to pay Mum and Dad back for the nanny and your trip. Time to grow up.” That meant more than words—he’d chosen us over his prized collection.
That night, we had a proper talk—no shouting, just honesty. His parents’ meddling didn’t just save my sanity; it saved our marriage. Taught him responsibility, empathy, all of it. Taught *us* how to be a team.
Not every new mum gets that lifeline, though. The next story’s lass tried schooling her husband herself—but blokes like ours? They always make it about *them* first.
*Inspired by real events, but names and details changed for privacy.*
