In Oxfordshire, the autumn leaves paint the lanes in fiery hues, but my heart is a storm of frustration. I’ve never uttered a harsh word about my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore. She’s practically a saint, isn’t she? How could anyone speak ill of her? Yet, in my mind, the curses I hurl her way are the gentlest of the torrent I hold back. How could I not seethe when she pulls stunts like this?
Here’s the latest ordeal I’m still reeling from.
Margaret’s holiday began—lovely, isn’t it? Her daughter and son-in-law jetted off for a fortnight’s break. Splendid! But they left their two children—six-year-old Oliver and four-year-old Sophie—with Granny. Fine, these things happen.
My husband and I live in Margaret’s cottage on the outskirts of Oxfordshire. Our own son, Alfie, is just ten months old. And why am I so “grateful” to this “darling” woman who’s “always there to help”? Oh, she helps, all right. But her help always ends up as someone else’s headache.
On Saturday evening, my sister-in-law flew off on holiday. By Sunday morning, Margaret’s boss rang, pleading for her to come into work. Not an order—a favour: “Margaret, we’re in a bind!” And what do you think? She agreed without a second thought! Only later did she find out a colleague had broken her leg, three others were on leave, and there was no one else to cover. Margaret even preened about it: “I’m indispensable!” Not a word about the children she’d promised to mind—now my responsibility.
I don’t mind babysitting now and then. If asked, I’ve always taken Oliver and Sophie for walks. But that doesn’t mean I dream of wrangling other people’s little ones all day! I’ll manage, of course, but what about safety? These two scatter toys everywhere, and Alfie puts everything in his mouth. Sophie keeps handing him tiny bits, and he chokes. I can’t look away for a second! Margaret couldn’t care less. She works till eight, comes home, showers, cooks herself dinner, and collapses into bed. Exhausted, apparently. As if I’m not drained after a day with three children!
Yesterday, she casually mentioned her eldest grandson, twelve-year-old Ethan, would be staying with us this weekend. His parents are off to visit his mother’s relatives. I reminded her I’d planned to take Alfie to my parents’ cottage—possibly for a week. That’s when she lost it. At first, she pretended not to understand, then exploded: “You must come back the next day or take them with you!”
“Are you mad?” I snapped. “Where would I put them? They’re not my children!”
I suggested their other grandparents could take them. Ethan’s old enough to stay home alone. But Margaret threw such a tantrum the walls shook. She raged until I nearly packed up and left for the cottage that very night—except it was already eleven.
Honestly, I don’t mind helping with the kids. I know how to keep them busy, what to feed them. But why should it fall to me? Why must I sacrifice my plans to bail out Margaret, who overpromises and then bolts to work?
And my husband, James? He’s away on business till October and, of course, takes my side. But that’s cold comfort when I’m alone against Margaret.
I know what some will say: “You’ll need help with Alfie someday. Is it so hard to babysit?” Yes, if I ask, I’ll be grateful. But only if I’m given notice and a choice—not dumped with someone else’s children like a broken suitcase! I’m not a nanny or a maid. I have my own family, my own child, my own plans. Why must I drop everything for her grandchildren?
What would you do if your mother-in-law offloaded her grandkids onto you the moment work called?