The worst part of Christmas? My mother-in-law treats me like my husband’s PA

In the midst of wrapping Christmas presents, trying to send a long overdue work email and needing to pick up my three children from school, my phone rings. Again. My heart sinks as my mother-in-law’s name flashes up.

It’s the third time she’s called today.

“Oh hello, Harriet, is this a bad time?” she trills.

“Only I didn’t want to call Philip, as I know how busy he is.”

I sigh. She wouldn’t dream of disturbing my husband during the working day, but thinks it’s perfectly fine to call me while I’m working from home.

“I am quite busy too, Mary,” I say, silently seething.

“But what can I help you with?”

“Ah, well, I know I’m seeing Philip later this evening – it’s so good of him to make the time to see us – but I need his menu choices for the Christmas party. I’m also waiting to hear back about what gift he might like.”

Could she not have waited until later, I think to myself, when Philip, who has been out every night this week, is going over to help her move some furniture?

It drives me mad when my overbearing Scottish mother-in-law treats me like my husband’s PA.

She expects me to make all arrangements on his behalf, from Sunday lunch to scheduling time when he is free to talk to her in the evenings.

Then there are the multiple messages and calls about what to buy him and the children for birthdays. Not to mention asking for updates about his new job or how he got on at his last doctor’s appointment.

On and on it goes.

And things get even worse at Christmas, with double the pestering and diary demands.

After 15 years of marriage I am, quite frankly, sick of it.

It’s not as though I haven’t asked Philip, an accountant, to step up rather than leaving me to bear the brunt of his mother’s demands.

The truth is, he simply can’t be bothered to take her every call. And when he doesn’t get back to her, she always calls me – since I’m too polite to do the same.

The fact that he is the main breadwinner probably has something to do with her approach, which increases my resentment. She is the last of the generation where wives didn’t work, but instead ran their husband’s lives, and she seems to think it’s my duty to fall in line.

She’s never really understood that I’m self-employed and work from home, and sees me as the main ‘homemaker’ i.e. port of call for everything.

She marvels that Philip does his fair share of cooking and school pick-ups. She thinks he deserves a medal.

And while she has never been openly critical of the fact I work, she clearly expects me to put the children first.

Philip once answered the phone when I was away on a work trip, and she asked where on earth I was.

Meanwhile, she’s never once questioned Philip being away or seen it as a dereliction of duty if he’s not looking after the children 24/7.

Philip’s father, a retired accountant, barely gets a word in and seems happy to have his life micromanaged by her.

And Philip also likes a quiet life so, although he admits she is hugely overbearing, he’ll never agree to remonstrate with her or dare suggest she bother me less.

This grates on me, to say the least. The fact he finds it easier to passively ignore her than to stick up for me when I’m feeling stressed simply enables her – and leaves me infuriated.

Last week, she called while she was out shopping.

“I just wanted to check if Philip is in need of any more jumpers. They’ve got some lovely cashmere ones in John Lewis on offer,” she asks.

“Mary, I’ve just had to pause a Zoom meeting to take this call. I thought it might be urgent as I saw you’d called three times.

“Can this wait?” I snap.

“Oh, well, I didn’t realise how busy you were. I suppose it can wait… but what about the jumpers?”

Later, when Philip gets home, I ask if he’s called his mum today.

“I haven’t had a chance,” he tells me.

“You know what she’s like.”

When I tell him she interrupted my meeting to talk Christmas knitwear, he just laughs.

“It’s not funny!” I say.

“Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I should have to deal with all this petty stuff instead of you.”

Emotional labour, I think it’s called.

“When are you going to step up and deal with her?’ I berate him.

It wasn’t always like this. I remember when Philip first took me home to meet his parents, at their rambling old rectory, Mary and I got on famously. We chatted for hours about everything from our favourite wallpaper to what books we were reading.

I thought it was quite endearing she took such a keen interest in Philip and his sister Matilda’s lives.

Little did I know what a poisoned chalice that would become.

Looking back, it was when we were planning our wedding that the interference started.

She expected me to consult her over what the ushers would be wearing, what sort of jokes the best man would be allowed to make and even to book hair appointments for her extended family who were coming down from Scotland.

I knew she wouldn’t dream of asking Philip to do such things.

Then when I took maternity leave to have the children, she started inviting herself to stay and took great pleasure in telling me how to raise them.

Everything, from my breastfeeding technique to weaning, came under scrutiny.

Things seem to have gone from bad to worse since then, with her expecting me to be the fount of all things

Philip, while her prodigal son remains undisturbed.

She would never dare criticise him or complain he hasn’t got back to her, and makes excuses for him constantly.

She sees me as her ally, simply because I too have a uterus.

Just as we’re sitting down to eat that evening, the phone rings. I know it must be Mary because it’s only ever her or the doctor’s surgery that calls on the landline.

“Ignore it,” I tell Philip but as it keeps ringing, he puts down his knife and fork and goes to pick up the receiver.

“Tell her I don’t know what bloody jumper you want, and I don’t bloody care if we have pork or beef for lunch on Sunday!” I shout.

Could this be the Christmas I finally break and tell her to butt out of our lives?

* Harriet is a pseudonym and all names have been changed.