Why I Still Vent About My Mum (And What It Teaches Me About Parenting My Own Kid)
Last Sunday, I was elbow-deep in pancake batter at 9 a.m., my 7-year-old was dumping a whole container of blueberries into the bowl despite my request to save half for later, when the doorbell rang. It was my mum, unannounced, with a bag of oranges from the tree in her yard and a look that took in the flour on my shirt, the blueberry smudge on the fridge, and my son’s scabbed kneecap all in one go.
First comment was about the batter. “Why are you letting him stir that? He’s going to get it everywhere.” I smiled and said he likes helping, and she moved on to the knee. “I saw that scraped knee when you posted it on Instagram. What were you thinking letting him ride his bike without jeans on? That could get infected.” I explained he fell on the way home from the park, it was 80 degrees out, we’d cleaned it twice and put a bandage on it. She nodded, but then she said it again, just softer: “Next time just make him put pants on, yeah?”
She stayed for an hour, had a cup of tea, asked about my work, played a quick game of Uno with my son, and left. The second the door clicked shut, I started ranting. I paced the living room, wiped flour off my hands onto my sweatpants, and went through every single comment she’d made that morning, then added in three from the last visit and two from Christmas for good measure. My partner just nodded, because he knows the drill by now. I don’t rant this way about my mum that often, but it happens every couple of months, and it always needs to come out.
I used to feel terrible about it after. I’d think, she’s a good grandma, she drives 45 minutes to see us every month, she helps us out when our car breaks down, who am I to rant about a few offhand comments? I’d tell myself I should be more grateful, more forgiving, that I’m turning into the ungrateful kid she always said I was. Then that Sunday, after I’d worn a path in the rug, my son wandered over from the couch where he was watching Bluey, climbed onto my lap, and said, “You know you’re the best mum ever, right? I like when you let me stir the batter.”
That stopped me mid-rant. It made me realize that all this ranting isn’t just being petty or ungrateful. It’s actually one of the most useful parenting practices I have. Most of the other parents I know do the same thing—we all have that group chat where we vent about our own parents or in-laws after a visit, and no one’s calling each other bad kids for it.
The first thing I’ve learned from all these rants is that getting it out before you react keeps small snags from turning into big family fights. For years, I’d bite my tongue through the visit, then snap at mum over something tiny on the way out, and we’d not talk for two weeks. Now I just have a simple rule: any comment that irks me gets a neutral “I’ll think about that” or a smile and a change of subject while she’s here. All the frustration gets saved for ranting after she leaves, when it’s just me and my partner behind closed doors. No one gets their feelings hurt unnecessarily, and I still get to get the frustration out of my system instead of letting it fester.
The second thing is that ranting helps me spot the patterns I don’t want to pass down. When I’m listing all the things that bug me about my mum’s comments, I’ll often catch myself thinking, wait, I said that exact thing to my son last week. That Sunday, I realized I use the same sharp tone when I tell him not to run with a popsicle that my mum uses when she tells me I’m parenting wrong. Once I saw that clearly, I started doing a small thing: when I feel that sharp tone rising, I pause, and rephrase it as a question instead of a command. Instead of “Get down from there, you’ll fall,” I say “What’s your plan if your foot slips?” It sounds small, but it changes the whole interaction—he gets to problem solve, and I don’t sound like I’m just nagging him, the way my mum sounds to me.
The third thing is that it’s okay to not have a perfect relationship with your mum, and that models good boundaries for your kid. I used to force myself to spend whole afternoons with my mum every visit, even when by hour two I was already biting my tongue so hard my jaw hurt. Now I plan all visits for 90 minutes max, I mention when we’ll be wrapping up when she arrives, and it works for both of us—she doesn’t get tired from all the running around my son does, I don’t leave the visit feeling drained. And when my son heard me ranting that day, he didn’t think bad of his grandma. He just learned that it’s okay to be frustrated with people you love, instead of pretending everything is fine when it’s not.
We still have awkward moments. Sometimes I forget my rule and snap at mum when I shouldn’t, sometimes she still shows up unannounced and comments on the state of my living room or my kid’s snack choices. I still need to rant after most visits. It’s not perfect, and I don’t think it’ll ever be. But lately, the ranting feels less like a bad habit and more like a check-in with myself: reminding me what I value, how I want to parent, and that it’s okay to not get it all right with the people who raised you.
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