LAST MONTH MY MIL, JEAN, IMPLORED ME TO TAKE THE CHILDREN FOR A WEEK DURING THEIR HOLIDAY RECESS. SHE GUARANTEED A WEEK OF MERRIMENT, THEREFORE I CONCEDED.
To simplify matters, I gave her $1,000 for groceries and any other necessities to spare Jean’s own finances. Jean was ecstatic. She affirmed to me that they’d be suitably nourished and in good health.
But when I returned to collect them a week later, anticipating their joyful faces with Grandma, I WAS HORRIFIED.
All of Jean’s assurances were fabrications. She misrepresented herself as the epitome of a flawless Grandma. But the reality proved to be dreadful for my progeny.
“What’s going on, Jean?” ⬇️”What’s going on, Jean?” I asked, my voice trembling as I surveyed the scene. The house was strangely silent. No peals of childish laughter, no excited chatter. Instead, a heavy, sugary scent hung in the air.
My eyes landed on my children first. They were slumped on the sofa, their faces pale and listless. My usually energetic seven-year-old, Leo, looked like he hadn’t slept in days, dark circles under his eyes. Four-year-old Lily, usually a whirlwind of motion, was lethargically picking at a bowl of something bright pink.
“They’re just resting, dear,” Jean said, her voice a little too cheerful, a little too loud. “We’ve had such a wonderful, busy week!”
But my gaze was drawn to the coffee table and the surrounding area. It was littered with empty candy wrappers, bright foil bags of chips, and half-eaten tubs of ice cream. The pink substance in Lily’s bowl was clearly bubblegum-flavored yogurt, and the smell in the air was overwhelmingly artificial sweetness. My stomach churned.
I knelt down in front of Leo, gently lifting his chin. “Hey buddy, how are you feeling?”
He mumbled, his voice weak, “Tired, Mommy.”
“And your tummy?” I pressed softly.
He just shrugged, his eyes drooping. Lily, sensing my concern, started to whine, “Mommy, I want more pink yogurt!”
I turned back to Jean, my voice rising in pitch. “Jean, what have they been eating? This place is a sugar factory!”
Jean waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, just treats, darling! It’s their holiday! Grandma’s rules, remember? We had so much fun baking cookies, and they just adore ice cream. They’ve been perfectly happy.”
“Happy?” I echoed, incredulous. “They look ill! Where are the vegetables? Where’s the real food I gave you money for?”
Jean’s cheerful facade faltered slightly. “Well, they weren’t really hungry for ‘proper’ meals. They preferred the snacks. And honestly, dear, with a thousand dollars, I could get so many more treats than boring old broccoli. They’ve been absolutely thrilled. Look at them, they’ve had a blast!”
I looked at my children again. They were indeed quiet, perhaps from sugar fatigue, perhaps from something worse. Their clothes felt sticky, their faces were pale and puffy. This wasn’t the joyful week I had envisioned. This was a week of sugary indulgence masquerading as merriment.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to remain calm. “Jean, thank you for having them. But we’re going home now.”
Jean looked slightly deflated, the cheerful facade completely gone. “Oh. Alright then. If you insist.”
Back at home, after baths and a proper, albeit bland, dinner of chicken and vegetables, my children slowly started to perk up. The color returned to their cheeks, and the lethargy began to lift. It took a few days of balanced meals and fresh air, but they gradually bounced back to their usual selves.
Later, I had a calmer conversation with Jean. She genuinely believed she had given them a week of joy. Her idea of “fun” and “spoiling” them was simply to let them eat whatever sugary delights they wanted. She hadn’t intentionally neglected them, she just had a drastically different view of childcare.
It was a stark reminder that “Grandma’s rules” could be very different from Mom’s rules. And while Jean’s intentions were good in her own way, communication and clear expectations were essential, especially when it came to my children’s health. Next time, I would be much more specific, and perhaps pack a suitcase full of vegetables myself, just in case. The week with Grandma had been an eye-opening experience, for all of us.