My Husband Wants Me To Work Part-Time—Just To Pay His Mom To Watch Our Baby

My maternity leave ends in two weeks, and I can already feel the pressure creeping in. Sleepless nights, healing body, and now—this.

My husband sat me down and said he thinks it’s time I go back to work. Not full-time. Just part-time “to stay in the game,” as he put it.

Fine. I was already thinking about it.

But then he dropped the second part.

He wants to pay his mom $1,200 a month to babysit.

The same exact amount I’d be making—before taxes.

I thought he was joking. I laughed. He didn’t.

“She’s taking time out of her week,” he said. “She deserves to be compensated.”

Mind you—his mom lives two hours away. She drives in, watches the baby for five hours, naps on our couch, complains about the formula we use, and leaves before dinner.

She’s also the one who told me last week that breastfeeding “isn’t natural after six weeks.”

So let me get this straight: I leave my baby with someone I barely trust, bust my ass for five-hour shifts at a job I don’t love, just so his mom gets paid?

And when I asked him why we wouldn’t just save the stress and have me stay home a bit longer, you know what he said?

“I just think it’s time you start contributing again.”

I stared at him, stunned.

Then I pulled up our joint bank account—

And saw a $1,200 Venmo.

Already sent.

To her.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of how everything suddenly felt upside down. Not just the money. The principle. The way he made the decision without even talking to me.

The next morning, while he was in the shower, I took a deep breath and called my sister.

She’s never been his biggest fan, but she tries to stay neutral. Still, when I told her what happened, she didn’t hold back.

“Are you serious? That’s your money too! And it’s not even a real job if all your paycheck is going to his mom!”

I didn’t need validation. I just needed to hear it out loud from someone who wasn’t gaslighting me.

I spent the next few days watching him closely. The way he smiled at the baby, the way he joked with his mom on the phone, the way he avoided bringing up the topic again—as if it was settled.

It wasn’t.

I had one more week of maternity leave. One more week to figure out what I wanted to do.

I decided to make a list. Two columns: “Reasons to go back to work” and “Reasons to stay home longer.”

The first column was thin.

The second was long and emotional. It included things like: He still wakes up every 3 hours, He smiles when he hears my voice, She doesn’t hold him right, and I’m not ready.

And still, I felt guilty.

Like I was being lazy. Like I wasn’t contributing. Like I owed someone something for simply being home with my baby.

Then something happened that changed everything.

That Saturday, I had to run a quick errand and asked my husband to watch the baby for an hour.

When I got home, I found the baby crying in his bassinet, red-faced and hoarse, while my husband was on his phone, pacing around the kitchen.

“What the hell, Ethan?”

“I was just letting him cry it out,” he said.

“For how long?!”

He shrugged.

That’s when it hit me.

If he didn’t even know how to comfort his own child for an hour, what made him think his mother—who visited once a week and believed in weird outdated advice—was the right person to care for him while I worked?

I didn’t yell. I didn’t argue. I just picked up my son, held him to my chest, and walked into the nursery.

Later that night, while feeding him in the glider, I made my decision.

I wasn’t going back. Not yet.

And I sure as hell wasn’t doing it just so his mom could get paid.

The next morning, I told Ethan we needed to talk.

He rolled his eyes, already annoyed, and that told me everything.

“I’m not going back to work right now,” I said calmly. “I’m not ready, and I’m not okay with your mom watching him. Especially not for $1,200.”

He looked at me like I’d just told him I crashed the car.

“She already rearranged her schedule,” he said.

“I didn’t agree to anything. You did. Without me.”

“She’s family!”

“So am I!” I snapped. “And you’re treating me like a freeloading roommate.”

That shut him up for a second.

I continued, “I’m raising our child. That is contributing. And if you want to make financial decisions behind my back, then maybe we need separate accounts.”

He looked stunned. Like I’d smacked him with words.

It got real quiet after that.

He slept on the couch that night.

Two days later, I opened a separate bank account in my name.

I didn’t even tell him at first. I just started transferring half the child-related expenses out of our joint account and paid them from my own.

He noticed pretty quickly.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing at the statement.

“Clarity,” I said. “You wanted contribution? I’m managing the baby. You handle the utilities. Seems fair.”

He didn’t like it. But he didn’t argue.

The next time his mom came over, she made a snide comment about not receiving the next $1,200 yet.

I smiled politely and said, “We’ve decided to hold off for now. I’m staying home longer.”

She blinked, clearly surprised. Maybe Ethan hadn’t told her yet.

She tried to protest, but I excused myself and walked back into the nursery.

I thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

One week later, Ethan came home with flowers. He apologized.

Sort of.

He said he “didn’t realize how overwhelmed” I felt. He said he “just wanted to help.” He even offered to take some nights so I could sleep.

It was a step. Not everything. But a step.

Still, I wasn’t sure I could trust him the same way again.

Then, two weeks later, something truly unexpected happened.

I got a call from his mom.

Not to complain. But to apologize.

She said she hadn’t realized how her involvement made me feel. That she didn’t mean to overstep.

And then—she offered to watch the baby for free once a week if I ever needed a break.

I was shocked. I didn’t say yes. But I appreciated it.

Maybe Ethan had spoken to her. Maybe she realized she’d crossed a line. Either way, it mattered.

And in that moment, something shifted.

I wasn’t just a tired mom anymore, doubting herself.

I was someone standing up for what she believed was best for her child—and for herself.

Over the next few months, things settled.

I stayed home longer. I freelanced a bit from my laptop during nap times. It wasn’t a lot, but it felt good.

Ethan started helping more. Slowly. Sometimes clumsily. But I saw the effort.

One night, after he rocked our son to sleep for the first time without me coaching him, he looked up and said, “I think I underestimated how much you do.”

I smiled. “Yeah. Most people do.”

By the time our son was nine months old, we had found a rhythm.

Not perfect. But better.

We even found a part-time nanny who came in twice a week—someone we both chose, and who had actual experience with infants.

And yes, we paid her. But it was our decision.

Now, looking back, I realize the fight wasn’t really about the money.

It was about respect.

About voice.

About how so many moms are expected to give everything—and then still be made to feel like they’re not doing enough.

I almost gave in.

Almost traded time with my baby just to keep the peace.

But I didn’t.