A post by Stephanie Sprenger @ http://mynameismommy1.blogspot.com/
At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I will make the following announcement: I am in hell. More specifically, holiday houseguest hell.
This Thanksgiving, we are hosting my parents, visiting from South Dakota, and my mother-in-law, visiting from Texas. My parents are here approximately 10 months out of the year; we love having them here, and I often comment that I wish they would just move in. Life seems so much easier when they are around. They are helpful, fun, and easy to be around. Unlike many people’s parents, it is not work to be around them.
So why the complaining, you ask? This particular November, I was stricken with a three day stomach bug around the same time that my 13 month old came down with her 6th cold since August. (Not an exaggeration, I am sad to say.) Then we flip-flopped; as I recovered from my tummy flu, I found myself coming down with her cold. That same day, we woke up at five a.m. to find that in addition to her runny nose and cough, the baby now had the stomach bug as well. This seems unfair.
I will spare you the details of her digestive illness, but I’m not going to lie- I literally threw up in my mouth when I was changing her diaper.
That day, clearly feeling like crap, my toddler clung to me, begged to nurse, and insisted on being held during her naps. In addition to feeling run down, congested, and feverish, I developed back spasms thanks to the physical burden of toting around my twenty pound child.
And now I had an audience. My mother in law arrived the previous evening, slept late into the day, and had not yet greeted her one year old granddaughter.
A word about my husband’s mother: she is a 75 year old diabetic cigarette smoker who typically sleeps all day and is up all night. You know, your average holiday houseguest.
When she emerged from her bedroom on D Day (Disgusting Diaper Day) I was frantically wiping unspeakable foulness from my daughter’s sore hiney while she wailed in protest. Being accustomed to my mom in law’s unhealthy nocturnal proclivities, I was fully prepared to listen to her exclaim in mock surprise, “I can’t believe I slept so late! It must have been the traveling that wore me out!” I had my own response already scripted, “Of course you’re exhausted! My sleep schedule is always a little off when I travel,” playing along with the routine and pretending we weren’t aware that she usually sleeps all day.
I was so flustered upon seeing her that morning that my rehearsed speech flew out the window and all I could muster was, “Don’t come in here!” as I frantically disposed of the contaminated diaper. What a way to welcome Grandma.
A few minutes later, the baby dressed and whimpering quietly, we all congregated in the kitchen. My own mother sat at the table, immersed in a craft project with my six year old. My dad maneuvered around the kitchen, unloading my dishwasher. My mother-in-law wandered around, locating a mug and pouring herself some coffee, and asking me where she might find the Splenda. I stood in the middle, nose running, head pounding, back spasming, and whining barnacle baby attached to my hip, fighting back the urge to scream, “EVERYBODY GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY KITCHEN!”
Where was my husband during this endearing Family Circus? At fucking work. Obviously.
Here’s the thing: having my parents here in the midst of illness and back problems was nothing short of a blessing. They were completely willing to swoop in and help me out, even granting me some precious down time to take a nap. Having my mother-in-law around did not feel like a blessing. I felt self-conscious at being observed “at my worst” and resentful of the extra body, a particularly high maintenance one, in my house when all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed.
My parents, seeing the girls practically ten months a year, have a very special relationship with their granddaughters. We are fortunate that we are able to spend so much time with them living ten hours away. That being said, I am ferociously protective of our time together- I don’t appreciate anything interfering with our sacred time. My husband’s mom, being in poor health and not fit to travel regularly, sees us about once a year. Surely I wouldn’t begrudge her the opportunity to spend Thanksgiving with us, when we see her so infrequently? Am I really that big of an asshole?
In addition to her unhealthy habits and unusual schedule, here are my irrational complaints about my mother-in-law’s presence this Thanksgiving.
· I don’t care for her stuffing. That’s right, I said it. It’s dry. And it sucks.
· She bought matching dresses for my children for Christmas; tradition dictates that each year my mom and I buy said holiday dresses the day after Thanksgiving.
· It is impossible to get her to do anything outside of the house; should she actually agree to accompany us on an outing, we spend about 45 minutes waiting for her to get ready. My husband literally bangs his head against the wall sometimes.
· She has taken over preparation of Thanksgiving dishes that I specifically enjoy making myself. See item 1. I am picky.
Should any of you be compelled to add a comment such as, “Are you seriously that unreasonable and selfish? This poor woman only gets to see you once a year and you can’t even find it in your heart to welcome her without complaining? Plus, at her age, and with her health, it’s not like she’s going to be around much longer,” let me save you the trouble. I know, I know. I suck.
If we are being honest, she is a sweet, gracious, and generous woman who genuinely enjoys doing nice things for us like making dinner and buying us things. And I am a complete and utter asshole. She does not hover over me, criticizing the way I am doing things, nor does she direct passive-aggressive comments at me for forgetting to provide her with clean towels. (I am truly a terrible hostess.)
While my brain reminds me that she is an easy houseguest compared to some, when I am at my physical lowest, I find I am unable to digest this reality check, and instead I spend my time sulking and bitching about her infringing on my space. Maybe it’s really my own inner critic who feels uncomfortable with a witness to my inept hostessing; the clingy, shit-leaking baby combined with my own physical ailments has left me feeling like a sweatpant-clad disaster.
I feel like I should wrap this up with some lesson learned about gratitude. But I can’t. Maybe next Thanksgiving.
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