I Don't Hate my Mother in Law

Preamble: I know lots of women. Most of them are sane. Most of those have mother-in-laws in their lives. A solid majority of those have beef with this person. I listen in to their examples, and I am annoyed from the outside. I always walk away from these moments baffled by the reality: Most women currently in the mother-in-law role have or at one point had an irritating mother-in-law of their own - one they commiserated about over bake sales and neighborhood barbecues of their day, then thirty years later incarnated.  And here's the most frightening baffle: Is that our fate? If they didn't stop the cycle, will my generation?

I stand out amongst my peeps, because my mother-in-law is not a monster. Far from it, she is not even mildly out of step. She attributes her skills in this department from her years as a minister and the work she did with premarital and marital counseling. You guessed it: People talk about their mother-in-laws as they relate to personal and marriage wellbeing from Day One.

When you're the Mother in Law

Behave like you learned how to in Kindergarten. The difference here is that, unless your son has married someone old enough to have birthed him, you are not peers with your playmate. You've got some years under your belt more than the years under hers and this sets you up to think that you don't have to play nicely or share fairly or play by any of the other kindergarten rules designed for peer interactions. You. Aren't. Peers, you may think. And you'd be right. But you have to strip off the layers of I-earned-this pedestal-sitting that comes with your age and play Kindergarten-style nonetheless. Neither of you hold more power, here. You are not peers but that does not stop you from being equals in the game of figuring-this-in-law-relationship-out. As soon as she feels you are playing with a perceived upper hand, you've lost the Kindergartener in you.

How would you like to do brunch this Saturday? Oh... at Wendy's you say? [Choke back: "I had my famous homemade quiche in mind and have already laid out the tablecloth we got as a family from Italy when Joey was in middle school! We ALWAYS do Saturday brunch with savory butter-saturated yumminess and lace-edged linens!"]. Wendy's it is!"

I was thinking I might grab fill-in-grandbaby's-name on Wednesday morning for a doughnut run [Omit: Because my own grandmother's love language was doughnuts and that was a way I felt connected to her so I'd like to do the same for my grand babies]. How does that work with your schedule? Oh, you'd prefer him to stay away from sweets for breakfast? Got it. Hmmm, help me think... what else would he think was special for breakfast?

You'd like me to come to the amusement park? [I hate roller coasters and large crowds].

So, you guys get to spend a week this summer on a trip to our house! I sort of thought we could do some hiking one day. Let me know what you think. And maybe one day we could go out to the pond to show the kids how to skip rocks. Oh, so I didn't realize your allergies kick into high gear then. I'll have the air conditioning pumped and primed for when you come! Check out which indoor spots might sound interesting.

So, you would like to travel to your parents' house for Christmas this year? That sounds so fun. Is everyone excited for the trip? How can we celebrate the holiday with your family?

When your son marries - a woman to make my case - things change. If you think that they won't or shouldn't, then you are fooling yourself.

Here's what happens: You take the back seat.

Simply put, you are no longer the most important woman in his life. Like it or not.

What's wild is that by recognizing this very healthy boundary (role of wife & role of mom), you are doing two things: A) Rather than minimizing your importance in his life, you are revealing the maximum awesomeness that is you... the mamma who raised a man to think and screw up and grow and choose and love for himself. You are patting yourself on your back. You are fist punching to the stars. You are raising a drink, toasting you son - yes - but also toasting you. You aren't suffering by cutting the chord. You are being rewarded.  B) You are reverse psychologizing like a B... By encouraging the wife to take the lead and not wedging your way in any chance you can get, you'll end up being invited to more shit. But this only works if you're not actually intentionally reverse psychologizing... passive aggressive manipulation always flops. If your son and his wife know you're playing games, there goes your invitation to meet up for lunch or witness the first haircut.

If you're thinking that this is way-wise and easier-said-than-done, you're right. My mother-in-law worked in ministry for years before I wed her [only] son. She conducted marriage counseling session after marriage counseling session... she knew first handedly how overbearing was NOT a winner adjective to describe the mother of the groom/husband/father of her grand babies.

When you're the Daughter in Law

You keep your mouth shut, keep your eyes silent, and use poker-face body language when in relationship with her house. She is CO-BOSS in her house and your son is the other co-boss and that's enough bosses; you have no role whatsoever... Well, maybe bus-girl, but even then only if She likes that. She might be younger and she may have no clue, but she gets to do her laundry and her decorations and her forks prong up/prong down in the dishwasher just any way she wants to - or doesn't - want to. And you follow the damn suit when you are there, as though her mode of operation - or lack thereof - is about the more brilliant damn mode there is.

Thank you, mother-in-law.

Five Good Reasons Easter Is My Least Favorite

5) I am all done buying my kids shit. OVER. IT. Christmas, Valentine's Day, and now EASTER?? They're gonna start expecting presents for Every. Stinkin. Day. Off. School. Parent Teacher Conference day? Martin Luther King Day? Guess what, little humans? It's not ABOUT you. Jesus's birth. Jesus's death. Jesus's resurrection. Teachers meeting with parents during work hours. Martin Luther King leading a civil rights revolution. Nope. Not. About. You.

4) I don't know how to hard boil eggs. I look online every year. Last year, with newfangled Amazon assistance, I asked Alexa. Apparently, I cannot seem to manage this basic thing; Scott takes over every time. He barely manages grilled cheese sandwiches and yet he kills hard boiled eggs.

The following is a separate thing, but it feels right to include it in #4: I have no idea how to dye eggs with four young-ish kids. I know elementary school art teachers live and dye (intended) by the rule "don't mix colors. keep your colors separate!" but how does that apply with the double dye dipping scenario? Best yet, how do you place 4 different-colored cups of magic in front of a three-year-old and then expect her to hold a dense object on a toothpick-wide piece of metal for three agonizing minutes to get results when she can barely SIT IN A CHAIR for three minutes?

3) I don't know how to say this without sounding like a creep. But I hate the Easter Bunny.

I just do.

Santa in the mall somehow sets well with me. He represents generosity. You can see his eyes. You know its gender. He is a human being. Red and white are respectable colors.

The Easter Bunny is a whole different beast. There's NO indication of what is behind those mesh eye holes... boy? Girl? Maniac? Not-employable video-gaming-basement-dweller? And the PASTELS... Life-sized bunny rabbit sits on a throne of baby pinks and baby yellows and baby blues. LIKE. THOSE. ARE. REAL. COLORS. The only time those colors ever make it to paint are for nurseries. And there are fully formed non-baby children lining up to see this plush guy/gal mascot surrounded by pastels that aren't even represented in nature's true Spring. Find me a pastel yellow dandelion, would ya? But wait... here's the clincher: I love Santa, because in addition to all things lovable about the jolly dude, he is a modern-day representation of flesh-and-blood St. Nicholas, who lived and breathed, and gave, and witnessed his care for little ones during his time on this earth. Mall Easter Bunny descended from NoBunny.

In short, I just don't dig the dang bunny.

2) I'm gonna get real with y'all on this one. The story of Easter is just intensely difficult to experience or honor with any degree of justice.

You probably thought I meant in our relaying it to our kids.

But I actually meant MYSELF.

I try. I make it to Mandy Thursday services. And Good Friday services. And then, of course, to Easter services. And the heaviness of Jesus's crucifixion is a strong cornerstone to the story of our Chris's full-picture grace to humankind. I mean. I think I get it. And I know I'm supposed to hang tight until Sunday, because that's what makes the story complete and "you can't have a resurrection unless you have a crucifixion" but dang if I don't always feel that this reasoning resonates with me.

But, crucifixion/resurrection talk aside, one of my issues is that I feel like Easter should capture so much meaning in my faith life but often I just can’t seem to conjure it up. Additionally, I think I get pissy about Easter morning's show woman ship (cuz - let's just be real - the outfit ensembles are the work of mostly women in the family). The day is emotion-laden if taken seriously. Mysterious, Awe-filled. Surprising. Weird. Scary. Hard-to-Believe. And yes, these many years later, Celebratory. Life over death. Light over Darkness. Right over Wrong. Good over Evil. Things of the Sprit over Things of The World. This, for me, is in many ways the crux of my faith, so I ought to be cheerleading my way to church on Sunday morning.

But instead I feel a little like we are all mainly excited to get a really good picture.

I know!!! I'm so darn cynical. But #2 is #2 and I'm being honest and it's actually a real problem for me, so go easy. And, please be in touch to offer your help, if you have any.

Oh, and also part of #2, I have no idea how to frame the Easter story for my kids. I'm too busy dealing with ME.

1) The plastic eggs and the green straw. Every year I save them. Every year I tell myself that, since I've done such a kick-butt job conserving the batch from that particular year  and since I have an impeccably labeled tote storage system in my basement, I will save myself the trip to the Dollar Tree the following year. But every year I cannot bare to open the tote containing passed-down batch of mismatched  plastic eggs and hand-me-down jelly-bean-stickified straw that has been restlessly awaiting its debut. I would rather pay $3.85 for a fresh batch. This means that I now have thirty eight totes I never open in my basement.

But at least they are tidily labeled "EASTER - DON'T OPEN!"

I found an outfit I never wanna take off

It was in 2007 that I took off my cross necklace for awhile. At that point, I had been feeling unsettled about my status as a Christian off and on for a solid few years and had committed some serious energy to discerning whether I was one any longer.

It felt weird to go through this, let me tell you. "Christian" was like fifth on my list of identifiers as a person. Woman. Mother. Wife. Runner. Christian.

It also felt weird to have been raised happily in the church  (Sunday Schooled, Baptized, Church Camped, Youth Grouped), to have gone to church by choice all through college, to have worked in a church out of college, to have become all grown up and join as tithing members with my husband to a church congregation and to yet nonetheless wrestle so.

I was not wrestling with God (loved Her!). I was not wrestling with Jesus (loved Him!). I was not wrestling with life (loved It!). I was not wrestling with church (loved Church people!). You see, I hadn't been burnt by any of the distinct entities that made up my faith life. I was simply wrestling with the broad definition of "Christianity."

My goals during this process were two-fold: #1) To determine the definition of "Christian." #2) To determine if I was one. My thinking was that if I couldn't faithfully believe/follow/make sense of  50% or more of my findings from #1), then I probably wasn't one. And, yes, I am aware that 50% is failing, so I was being generous.

It took about six months to determine the outcome.

I flunked.

I decided I had been wearing the Christian costume long past it fitting properly. And taking it off without an alternate costume meant I was religiously naked. Didn't even have the jewelry of my cross necklace. Damn. Naked.

But then, about a year and a million books and conversations later, something fantastic happened.

I realized that I was both terribly wrong and pinpointedly right. I was right that the old Christian costume was indeed too small, too itchy, and too clostriphobic. I was wrong that that meant I needed to let go of Christianity altogether.

There was a whole new costume, a Christian one too, awaiting me. Who knew! This new one is all roomy and down-filled and allows for all my appendages to bend and stretch every which way. Best of all, it grows with me. I won't need to swap it out for another ever again!

Step One: Put cross back on. (Then silently beg for passers-by to ask about my new costume, cuz this beauty of a cross means something quite different than it did to me a year ago)

Step Two: Spend some serious time breathing in this new identity as a Christian. This meant keeping a serious spiritual eye out for old trappings and keeping my personal communication with God consistent, frequent, and pure. Yes, and also giving myself time... it takes time for the full adoption of a new way of looking at things.

Step Three: Be relentlessly choosy about our church home (Which, as timing and relocating would happen, was poignant)

This is exactly what I did. And now, so many years later, I'm still growing into my costume. While my jewelry and church home choices  are secure, I work on Step Two ongoingly. And, truth be told, I also still silently beg strangers to ask me about my faith. I keep thinking that if folks knew what I have found to be true of God and of Christianity 2.0 since my 2007 crisis of faith, they'd be lining up to get charms, tattoos, pendants, and hair cuts in the shape of a cross. Or a heart, maybe. Or a peace-sign. All three would work great, too.

So, I'll save the lists of my definitions (both old one and new one) for a different post. I'm sure you'll be holding your breath, so as a teaser, here is a teensy description of the identity of my new costume: It is one that sort of giggles at definitions and prefers poems and parables and paradoxes to legal documents. It's one that nudges me closer and closer to the behaviors of Jesus, which is to say a pure and real love for people, especially the ones who the world deems furthest from the bull's eye. It takes you as you are, questions and doubts and worries and fear-filled and prideful and imperfect and all. And it privately snickers at those taking themselves too seriously. And it grieves when it sees fake preside over real. And it wants all of you. All of you. And all of me. And I'd want it no other way.