How I Stood My Ground When My DIL Kept Dropping Off the Toddlers Mid–Book Club

I have always cherished being a grandmother. Ever since my son Michael and daughter-in-law Nancy welcomed their two little ones—twin toddlers Emma and Jake—I have taken every opportunity to help. School drop-offs, surprise fevers at midnight, last-minute work calls for Nancy… I’ve happily stepped in, every single time, without a single complaint.

But a few months ago, I decided it was time to carve out a little bit of life just for me. After my husband passed away three years back, I learned that living alone can feel empty if you don’t fill it with things you love. So I joined forces with three dear friends—Helen, Dorothy, and Alice—to form a monthly book club. This wasn’t one of those “let’s drink tea and nibble cookies” kind of gatherings. No, we selected serious books—novels full of twists, memoirs packed with insight, works of history that challenge our minds—and then we met to dig into them. We argued about characters’ motives, laughed over unexpected plot turns, and sometimes even grew teary at moments of tender wisdom. It became my refuge, three precious hours each month when I was Martha the reader, not just Martha the grandmother and on-call babysitter.

When I first told Nancy about my book club, she couldn’t hide her amusement. “A book club?” she giggled. “How cute. Just perfect for your age.” I didn’t let her tone ruffle me, though. I’d been doing this for me, not to win her approval.

A couple of weeks later, on the afternoon of our very first meeting, I was bustling around the dining room. I’d laid out teacups, brewed hot tea, and baked my famous blueberry coffee cake. The book was set to be “The Silent Patient,” a psychological thriller none of us could wait to dissect. I was in the final touches—iron the tablecloth, arrange the cushions on the sofa—when I heard the crunch of tires in the driveway. I glanced out the window and saw Nancy’s minivan pull up.

Before I could reach the door, she yanked open the back hatch and started unstrapping Emma and Jake’s car seats. “Hi, Martha!” she chirped. “Perfect timing—I need you to watch these two for a few hours.”

I froze. “Nancy, today is my book club meeting,” I reminded her gently. “I mentioned it last week and the week before.”

Her smile never faltered. “Oh, right—your little reading group. But this won’t take long. I’ll be back before dinner!” She didn’t hand me a diaper bag or a single toy. She didn’t mention a back-up plan or explain where she was going. Then she backed out and was gone, waving through the window.

I love those grands with all my heart, but toddlers have energy for days. There is no sipping tea over sentences from Anthony Doerr’s “All the Light We Cannot See” when one little girl is coloring the carpet with crayons and the boy is gleefully dumping juice all over my potted fern. When my friends arrived, they found me trying to rescue leaves of the fern and chase after Jake, while Emma tottered happily with a crayon in each hand.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologized as I ushered them inside. “She just dropped them off.”

Helen surveyed the chaos. “I don’t think we can discuss anything today,” she sighed, setting her bag down. “Maybe we should reschedule?”

I brushed at a stray leaf. “No, I want to do this. Just give me a moment.” But I could see their pity. They were here for me—but they deserved a proper meeting, not a toddler rodeo.

Two weeks later, it happened again. No warning, no call. Nancy pulled up moments before book club, marched straight in, and said, “Martha, I’ll be gone for hours. Thanks!” Then she drove off, leaving me juggling two toddlers, a tray of scones, and a copy of “The Goldfinch.” My friends arrived, the same scene repeated itself, and afterward they rallied in the kitchen.

“Martha,” Dorothy said in her firm tone, “you have to set boundaries. Nancy thinks you’re her free babysitter. If you don’t stand up to her, she’ll keep doing this.”

“I know,” I admitted, feeling the sting of their concern. “But I don’t want to make trouble.”

“She already made trouble,” Alice pointed out. “You’re worth more than a substitute teacher for her convenience.”

I thought it over that night. I loved my grandchildren fiercely, but I deserved my book club, too. I deserved my time. So I made a plan—one that would give Nancy a taste of her own medicine, without a single harsh word.

A week later, Nancy arrived just when I was setting up for the meeting. The door swung open, and there she stood with her arms full of toddler paraphernalia: snack cups, diapers, loveys, but no warning whatsoever. “Martha, the kids need you again,” she announced.

I took a deep breath and smiled sweetly. “Of course, Nancy—just let me grab their coats.” I ushered Emma and Jake inside and strapped them into their booster chairs. Then, with Nancy watching from the driveway, I drove off—straight to Nancy’s yoga class at the community center.

When I arrived, I marched into that serene room where Nancy was bent in perfect “downward dog.” The teacher froze mid-pose as I set Emma on the mat in front of Nancy and placed Jake beside her yoga block.

“Hi, Nancy!” I chirped. “I’m just dropping them off for a couple of hours. I’ll be back later!”

Nancy’s lip quivered. She could not believe her eyes—here she was, poised on one foot, with two tiny children wandering around her mat. The room murmured, heads turned, and she turned bright red. I gave a little wave, picked up my purse, and walked out to laughter and sympathetic claps from her classmates.

Book club that evening was perfect. My friends sat in peaceful silence, padded cushions squeaking, while we dug into Hilary Mantel’s “Wolf Hall.” No spilled juice, no crayons on the carpet—just thoughtful discussion.

The next time Nancy tried to dump the children on me right before my meeting, I repeated the same trick—only this time I took them to her weekly luncheon with friends at the café downtown. They all gaped as Emma and Jake made a beeline for the waiter. Nancy, faced with rice pudding everywhere, realized for the first time what she’d been forcing me to handle.

That’s when she finally snapped. She came to pick them up afterward, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Martha, this is ridiculous,” she hissed. “You can’t just drop them on me at my yoga class or at the café!”

I held her gaze calmly. “Nancy,” I said softly, “I’m happy to babysit when you ask in advance. I love being a grandmother. But if you show up unannounced with toddlers in tow, I will return the favor. Use my exact words—‘I’ll be back in a few hours!’—and leave them wherever I happen to be.”

Nancy opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally she whispered, “I understand.”

Since that day, I have enjoyed every single book club session uninterrupted. Nancy now calls ahead when she needs me, gives me enough notice, and even thanks me kindly, rather than treats me like free childcare. I still adore my grandchildren and will help whenever I can—but I also treasure my time in the company of good friends and good books.

So to any grandmother out there: your time matters, too. Don’t be afraid to speak up gently but firmly. You deserve your own sanctuary—whatever that may be.