Ah, you wouldn’t believe what’s going on with my son and his wife right now! My daughter-in-law’s been lounging in the maternity ward while me and my poor husband are run ragged looking after the grandkids. Honestly, I reckon she’s done it on purpose just to get a break!
So my son, Oliver, turns to me and goes, *”Mum, you see how it is—you’re the only one who can help!”* I’m telling you, it’s exhausting. Here I am, a sixty-year-old woman, and my daughter-in-law, Emily, suddenly comes down with a *convenient* fever, sore throat, and lost her sense of smell and taste right at the end of her pregnancy. Naturally, she couldn’t take the kids with her. Oliver’s at work from dawn till dusk, so off she toddles to the hospital, leaving us to pick up the pieces. Two weeks in, and we’re absolutely shattered!
*”But she didn’t just check herself in for no reason, did she? If the doctors are keeping her, she must actually be unwell…”*
Oh, come off it! Forty-one weeks pregnant—what’s the big deal? Just have the baby and be done with it! Last time, she barely made it to the hospital before popping the little one out. Now the doctors are fussing, saying she’s got no business having babies every two years, that her body needs more time. So there she is, lounging about, flipping channels, eating NHS jelly, and waiting for contractions while we’re run off our feet!
Honestly, I’m at my wit’s end. My husband, Nigel, gets home in the evening and takes over, but by then I’m fit to drop. The kids are full-on—four and two years old, never been away from their mum this long. Usually, if Emily needs help, she calls *her* mum, not us. Last time, when it was just the one, she ended up in hospital out of nowhere, left the baby with a neighbour, and her mum rushed over. Two hours later—boom, baby’s here.
So six months ago, Oliver drops the bombshell: *”Mum, we’re having a third.”* I said, *”What, are you going for some kind of record? Slow down!”* But of course, he just brushed me off—*”We’ve got this, Mum!”* When things are fine, it’s *”Butt out, we don’t need you!”* The minute trouble hits? *”Mum, help, no one else can!”* And this is just the start!
The eldest was in nursery, but Emily pulled him out to *”avoid germs.”* So now I’m stuck at home with them, no chance to even pop to the shops. The little terrors are into *everything*—fighting, climbing, making a right mess. The telly’s the only thing that shuts them up, but even when it’s quiet, I can still *hear* them in my head.
They can’t even dress themselves! The youngest is still in nappies, food *everywhere* at mealtimes—who raises kids like this? If she can’t handle two, what’s she doing having a third?
Nigel gets in around seven, and I’m straight into cooking, cleaning, laundry—you name it. The place is a tip by teatime. We bathe them, wrestle them to bed, and *then* I finally get to call Oliver. *”Well? Has she had it yet?”*
*”No, still waiting. Scans say the baby’s fine—at least it’s a girl this time.”*
Every day ticks by, and I’m getting proper narked. Emily’s living it up in there—Oliver brought her laptop, she’s bingeing Netflix, chatting online. If she were home, she’d have had this baby by now! But no, she could drag it out *weeks*. *”For pity’s sake, either push the thing out or come home!”* I told Oliver. *”When she goes into labour, call an ambulance like normal people!”*
My neighbour’s niece had hers last year—in and out in a day! Even my friend’s daughter was quicker. Why’s everything so complicated with *them*? I keep telling Oliver: *”Just bring her home!”*
*”And what does he say?”*
*”What can he say? ‘Mum, just hang in there—they won’t discharge her at 41 weeks!’”* I said, *”Make her sign a form! They can’t keep her against her will!”* But no, it’s *”Mum, what’s the point? We’ll just have to turn around and take her back!”*
So here we are, stuck. Is Emily really wrong for staying in hospital? Or am I being unfair—if I agreed to help, should I just get on with it? They don’t ask for much, true. She’s not off gallivanting—she’s in *hospital*. They don’t keep you in for no reason… but *still*. I’m *done*!
