Neither Grandma Can Pick Up My Child From Nursery—Now I Have To Pay Double For Childcare

My blood still boils thinking about those days! I quarreled with my mother again, and my husbands mother wouldnt so much as ring me. Were what people might call lucky to have two grandmothers in our livesmy own and my stepmotherbut lucky is far too generous a word, for theyre grandmothers only in name.

Both lived less than a stones throw from our sons nurserybarely a hundred yards awayyet neither would dream of fetching him home. I would have done it myself, if my shift at the office didnt finish so late, often past nine oclock. My husband struggled as well, what with working shifts at the local factory. Most folk in our town were in the same boat, toiling at the factory, so the nursery had set up a special group for children to stay until ten in the evening. The extra fees for this arrangement cost a pretty pennyan expense that gnawed at our household budget, and all the more vexing since both grannies were still alive!

My mother finished work at six and walked past the nursery every evening. She had entered a season in her life where her own happiness came first. Having divorced my stepfather, she was determined to live for herselfresting after work, treating herself to face masks to look younger than her years. Every weekend was a flurry of outings, films, gallery visits, and meet-ups with her friends.

She rarely took her grandson along, and only on the odd weekend. She always claimed that having him about disrupted her routine: he dashed about the flat, made a racket, and got in the way of her meditation. She loved to dole out advice about raising children, yet flatly refused to have any part in it herself.

Then there was my mother-in-lawa whole different sort. Shed never worked a day, always content in her domestic role. With four children spaced just a couple of years apart, my husband being the eldest, youd think shed be perfectly suited to helping with her grandson. Not so. She assured me shed had her turn with her own and was busy with endless household chores: cooking, cleaning, washing, coming evening shed be bustling about feeding everyone and then tidying up after them, putting the men to bed. Never mind that her youngest sons, one eighteen and the other twenty-one, were grown and perfectly capable of looking after themselves.

On one occasion, she did collect our son, but complained bitterly about how warm it was and how the task threw her whole day into disarray. Her men came home from work hungry and tired, she said, and shed had no time for anything. She bluntly told me that I had the child for myself, not for her sake, and therefore, I ought to take sole responsibility and fetch him from nursery as well. She asked us not to expect any further help from her.

For a while, fortune smiled on me when my friend who adored sleeping worked the late shift while I did mornings. Then, she moved on, replaced by my aunt, who, alas, refused the evening shift, forcing us to pay again for extended nursery hours, draining more of our meagre funds. The hypocrisy of our grandmothers rankled most at family gatherings, where theyd fawn over our boy, boasting about their love and which of them gave him the best present. But we didnt need their gifts; we needed genuine help.

Just yesterday, Id rung my mother and practically begged her to pick up my son from nursery, for wed no money left to pay for the extra hours. Weve stopped expecting anything from our parentsneither financial aid nor real support. My husbands mother wont offer any money, saying her sons eat for England and all the household funds vanish into food. I scarcely know how well get through this. Every penny my husband and I earn gets spent on meals, clothes, and the essentials, and still we pay twice over for nursery fees.

How do we get through to our grandmothers that helping us means more than exchanging gifts or affectionate words? What we need is genuine supportnot parcels and presents, but hands-on help.