Ahhh, mothers-in-law - am I right?
In the Polish language, jokes abound about these poor, unfortunate women. Now, my brain is like a sieve when it comes to remembering jokes, but I do know at least one about mothers-in-law: A drunken husband comes home from the bar late at night and sees his wife’s mother standing on the steps with a broom. “Is mommy sweeping?” he slurs. “Or flying away?”
When I was teaching ESL for adults a few years ago, it didn’t matter how many countries the students and I represented all together. It didn’t matter how different the foods we ate were, or whether we wore jeans or dresses or hijabs - we could all sit there griping about mothers-in-law and understand each other perfectly. This visceral reaction is so universal, I think, that I’m willing to bet that most of you agreed with me before I even voiced a coherent thought. All I had to say was “mothers-in-law.” Right?
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So what is it about these women that frustrates us so? Are they part of some secret international gang whose mission is to make our lives worse? Do they automatically gain acceptance to this organization the minute their sons say “I do,” or is membership something they actively seek out in an effort to constantly undermine us?
My mother-in-law visited once when I was a first-time mom, and my baby boy was just a few weeks old. I loved motherhood. It was something I’d always wanted and hoped for, and now that it was here, I was ready. I felt confident. I had read all the baby books and websites and blogs, consulted with my friends who were mothers themselves, called to memory everything I had learned in my child development classes in college. I knew what I was doing. The second day my mother-in-law was here, I was walking around the house holding my son. My hair was falling into my face, so I quickly took my hand away from my baby’s head to brush it back. My mother-in-law literally almost fell out of her chair when she saw me doing this. All the confidence I’d had before vanished, leaving me feeling like a clumsy little girl who’d almost broken the expensive china. And so ensued a summer of private grievances, each one an additional brick in the wall that was forming between us.
Oh, but the socks! Let me tell you about those. It drove me up the wall to see them laying there in the bathroom, accusing me of not being a good enough wife. She hand-washed my husband’s white socks, you see, claiming that the washing machine failed to get all the grime out, leaving them grayish and dull instead of the sparkling white they were meant to be. Who cares? I thought. They’re socks! No one sees the bottoms! Once, I jokingly said something to her about the matter. “Oh, Mother, you don’t have to do that. Just let the machine take care of it.” She wouldn’t. Every few days, there they were, soaking in a red plastic basin in the bathroom. I was indignant. Self-righteous. It mattered little that no part of me actually believed that it was my job to make sure my husband’s socks were clean. Every time I saw them soaking there, it felt like a personal affront, like my mother-in-law, by doing this task, was letting me know that I had shirked an important duty. That I had failed her son.
Almost eight years have passed since that time. My sweet little baby boy is now almost eight. Eight! I can hardly believe it. He’s so big. My heart aches when he stands next to me and I see that he is already up to my shoulders. I watch him sleeping on his bed, long legs stretched out and reaching almost to the end, and I will time to slow down. We sit across from each other at the kitchen table, playing Scrabble, and I try to soak him in - the way his two front teeth are still just a little too large for his mouth; his thick brown hair, standing up at odd angles in a few places; the light splay of freckles across his nose and cheeks; his beautiful smile, so distinct, so Damian; the way he sometimes starts his sentences with the phrase, “If I’m not mistaken…” My sweet little baby boy. He’ll be an adult before I know it. People tell me it goes by so fast but they don’t have to. I know. I really, really do know. Someday, in the not-too-distant future, he will leave home. He will have his own life, separate from mine. And maybe someday soon, I’ll be the dreaded mother-in-law - the butt of so many jokes.
Often I’ve joked with my husband that no one will ever love my baby boy the way I love him. Don’t get me wrong; he’s not a total mamma’s boy. In fact, the other day, after we finished watching a movie, he stood up from the couch, stretched, and stated that he needed to go throw in a load of laundry so he’d have something to wear to school the next day. (I’m not gonna lie, I was proud.) And I really, really hope that if marriage is the route he chooses, I’ll be one of those cool, chill mothers-in-law, the kind whose son’s wife calls for advice and the kind with whom she wants to go out to lunch. (What? A woman can dream, can’t she?)
More likely, though, I’ll be on the receiving end of comments like, “I can’t believe you let your children play outside without protective eyewear. The horror!” Or, “I can’t believe you let your children [insert something we mothers do today that is completely normal but in thirty years will be obsolete or outlawed]!” And, on the flip side, I’ll have to stand by and grit my teeth as I observe my son with his new family, wishing they would just heed my advice because I’ll clearly be able to see that they’re doing things wrong. Because I will have raised three children! Because I will be wiser! More knowledgeable! How dare they think I’m a moron?!
OK, before my blood pressure rises from this future imaginary conflict with my son and his future imaginary wife, I’m going to stop. Where was I going with this?
Conflict. That’s right. Maybe there will always be conflict with our mothers-in-law. Maybe it’s just unavoidable for two women who love the same man (in very different ways, of course). I don’t know about you, but when I’m in the middle of a fight with my husband or furious at something he’s done, I inevitably start blaming his mother. It’s because she did blank, and such-and-such, that you’re acting this way! I inwardly seethe.
But then - then there are times when my overactive imagination has me constantly questioning how I’m messing up my own sons, and what kind of humans they’ll be as a result of my parenting. I sincerely hope that my good practices will outweigh the bad. But I won’t really know that for many more years, now, will I?
Photo by Julie Johnson on Unsplash
Next month, when my mother-in-law visits, I will try something different. I am no longer the same person I was during that long-ago summer. I’ve had eight years of being a mother, and I’m only ten years away from having an adult son myself. So, if my mother-in-law asks me a question at which I may bristle because I think she’s questioning my child-rearing methods, I will simply answer. If she attempts to hand-wash my husband’s socks, I will let her do so without uttering a word, and without feeling like it has anything to do with me. Because you know what? I will try to picture her then, how she may have been thirty-five years ago, a new mom with her sweet baby boy whom she adored more than anything in this world. And I will try to understand her frustrations as this sweet baby boy grew up, I will try to feel her heartache when he left home and crossed the ocean to be with me, and she knew then that she would only see him once every few years. And when she is here, in our home, I will step back and let her take care of her sweet baby boy.
At least on Day 1. (Hey, I’m only human.)