Two grown children and not a scrap of help from either. They arrive as if for a holiday at a grand seaside hotelhere just to unwind, while I flit about like hired staff, bustling to greet, to house, to feed, to tidy, and to tend after all their needs. A hand lifted? Not even a whiff. Not a single pound offered as thanks.
Ive a son and a daughter. To me, theyll always be my little onesyet theyre fully into adulthood, with their own families now. My sons got two children, my daughter has one so far. I live out in the countryside, in the old family home, so naturally the children and grandchildren stream in, often and in droves. Yet every time, these visits seem heavier, more impossible to bear.
Theyve grown so used to treating my house like a retreatevery chore, every errand, every hot pot and pie on their plates is dealt with by yours truly. Beds are made up beforehand, the pantry is stacked, Sunday roast and shepherds pie always set out. Thats always been our waymy own mother always met guests with a table groaning with food and a warm lace-trimmed bed. But my sister and I never took advantage; we knew it was hard for mum to keep up with everything. So we washed up, minded the little ones, helped sweep and dust, brought groceries for her, knowing she struggled alone. She never asked for anything, but still, we gave what help we could.
Now when my children come, if one rinses a cup and leaves it in the sink, Im expected to be grateful. As for my daughter-in-law and son-in-law, well, I suppose theyre guests, and perhaps I am just mother-in-law to them, never quite family. But what stings is how my own son and daughter havent the faintest clue about helping. They arrive, eat, gaze at the telly, drop off the grandkids in the garden with me while they traipse off for a walk or a visit. Im left scrubbing every plate, wrestling with lunch and dinner, running the mop over the floors, as the house teems with noisy feet. And the little ones need constant watching.
With each visit, it wears on me more. My back aches now, standing by the cooker for hours is too much. I was raised to never let things slip, to always welcome guests properly. I get so excited for weekends, yet it takes days to recover from the whirlwind after.
I know I need a helping hand, but it feels almost improper to say anything. What if the children take offence, suppose Im dissatisfied with them? I do feel joy when theyre here, but it gets harder every time to shoulder it all alone. Theres always more work piling upleaky taps, garden gatesbut I cant manage them myself. Yet the shame grips me, forbidding me to ask. The kids have jobs, after all; they neednt toil for me.
Ive no clue what to do. That notion drilled into me since childhoodthat asking for help is weaktorments me. My upbringing says be brave, do it all yourself, but its exhausting. Truthfully, I do desperately need some help, one way or another. On the other hand, asking for it feels humiliatingwere raised never to burden anyone, always to cope. So I suffer in silence, trapped by pride and old habits, unable to rise above it. Its miserable, but I dont know another way. I wonder why my children cant see Im not twenty anymore, that I cant split myself in two. Theres no one to blame, yet Im left wounded. And I havent the faintest idea how to free myself from this strange, persistent trouble.
