I love my Grandma. Nanny B as I affectionately call her, she has been a rock for me since birth and I see her more as a mother than a grandmother. But over the last few months that love is fast developing into loathing. If things continue in the same manner manslaughter is looking very likely.
I live with my aunt, which is fine, but my gran (my aunts mother) has been staying with us quite frequently to care for her great aunt who is in and out of nursing homes and hospitals. With this in mind this post makes me sound like a cruel and unsympathetic, but these visits are becoming more frequent, lengthy and unpredictable. Six months ago it was once a month. Now, she comes down to stay for at least 3 days out of every week. We have gained an extra lodger. One that leaves the house for two hours a day and then spends the rest of the time in the living room eating all our food, religiously watching shit TV because they complain that you don’t entertain them enough. A lodger that emotionally blackmails you into feeling guilty for not wanting to spend time with them. A lodger that makes you breathe a sigh of relief whenever they leave the house.
This very clever lady is also skilled in the art of NLP. So when she comes to stay she always tries to fix you. When you don’t need to be fixed. You just need a break.
I am in my final year of uni. I have the first draft of my dissertation due in next Friday, as well as my BBC interview on Tuesday and countless other pebble shaped duties that keep arising. The last thing that I need right now is my grandma texting me every evening asking me when I am coming home to cook her dinner. While I moved out of home when I was 18, I have now completely lost my independence.
The fact that my social life gets put completely on hold is a major cortisol raising factor. On Shrove Tuesday, to celebrate presentation giving, I invited a friend round for some relaxing pan flipping action. What developed was a nagging tutorial in batter making and the release my stroppy inner child threatening to batter her if she wasn’t careful. Also, because her unplanned visits almost always cross over to the weekend, any frivolities have to be grandma rated.
“Oh, you’re going out. Where? With who?”
“You’re drinking already? It’s only…”
“You smoke how much?”
Whenever we have actual invited guests, any chatter beyond 12am is met with tutting and endless trips to the bathroom, as well as the demand of a morning introduction. One morning, I tried to usher a boy out of the house to avoid a Spanish inquisition and pre-marital judgement. No such luck.
Maybe I should make a shit my nan says. Except nothing she says is awesome. Unless you wanted to know the complete history of medieval Britain, or the plot structure of Corrie.
Feel a little bit better for getting that out of my system. Still feel terrible for being a grandma hater. She is back next Monday. I want to cry.