**Diary Entry – 15th March**
Bloody hell, my daughter-in-law’s sprawled out in the maternity ward, while me and my husband, Arthur, are run ragged looking after the grandkids. She’s done it on purpose, mark my words—escaped to hospital just to get out of it all!
My son, Thomas, said to me, “Mum, you see how it is—you’re the only one who can help.” Sixty years old, worn to the bone, and here I am, Doris Whitmore, playing nursemaid again.
Emily—that’s my daughter-in-law—suddenly came down with a “mystery illness” last week. Fever, runny nose, sore throat, then lost her taste and smell. Couldn’t possibly take the kids with her, could she? Thomas is at work dawn till dusk. So off she trots to hospital, and now we’ve got the little terrors full-time. Two weeks in, and I’m at breaking point.
But was it really her decision? The doctors wouldn’t keep her in for no reason.
“Rubbish!” I told them. Forty-one weeks pregnant—what’s the fuss? Just get on with it! Last time, she popped the baby out so fast she barely made it to hospital. Now they’re faffing about, saying she needs monitoring—too many kids too close together, apparently. So there she sits, flipping channels, waiting for contractions while we’re run off our feet.
Honestly, I’m done in. Spinning like a top all day. Arthur comes home in the evening, takes over with the grandkids, and I collapse. How much longer can we keep this up?
Emily and Thomas have two little ones—four and two—and another on the way. They’ve never been without their mum this long. Usually, if Emily needs help, she calls her own mother. Last time, when she had just the one, she rang her mum from the hospital after leaving the baby with a neighbour. Two hours later, she’d given birth.
Six months ago, they dropped the bombshell—baby number three. I asked Thomas straight: “Trying to break a record, are you?” He just brushed me off. “We’ve got it covered, Mum.” Typical. When things are fine, it’s “Leave us be.” The second trouble hits? “Mum, save us!”
The eldest was in nursery, but Emily pulled him out to avoid germs. No way am I dragging them across London. So here I am, trapped at home with two whirlwinds. They bicker, they scream, they’ve no idea how to dress themselves. The youngest still wears nappies, flings food everywhere. Why have a third when she can’t handle two?
Arthur gets back by seven, takes over while I prep meals, scrub stains, wrestle laundry. By nine, I finally ring Thomas.
“Well? Any news?”
“Still waiting. Scans are fine—it’s a girl this time.”
Every day, my patience thins. Emily’s living the life of Riley—laptop, box sets, lounging about. If she were home, she’d have had that baby by now!
“Either push it out or come home!” I told Thomas. “If she goes into labour, we’ll call an ambulance like normal people!”
My neighbour’s niece had hers last year—in and out in a day! Why’s our lot always different?
Thomas just says, “Mum, they won’t discharge her at forty-one weeks.”
So here we are. Stuck.
Is Emily really in the wrong, or am I just being a grumpy old sod? She didn’t swan off for a spa day—she’s in hospital. But blimey, some days I wonder if I’ll survive this.
**Lesson learnt:** Never assume you’re done with nappies. Life’s got a cruel sense of humour.