I am now on my second attempt to write a blog about in-laws. The truth is, once I started writing the first one and I got to about the 576th page, I realized that this may take several volumes. So be advised…I’m just chipping off a little piece of the iceberg. Right now, I’m tensing just about every bone in my body as I attempt to slide down this slippery slope of a relationship. I hope you appreciate it. I know I’ll be feeling it tomorrow.
I have found that there’s usually no middle ground with in-laws. Most people, when you ask them about their relationship with their in-laws after the death of their spouse, don’t say, “Well, they’re fine. I enjoy them when I see them, but if they don’t come by I’m okay with that too.”
That would be Choice A. And the two of you out there who have it…well…you’ve struck gold.
Then there’s choice B: They might be genuinely loving and helpful. And suffocate you a little on the side.
Choice C: You’ve filed a restraining order.
And then there’s the rarely chosen D: The ones who have great parents AND great in-laws with whom you genuinely enjoy spending time with. Together. At the same time. Those of you who have that have either really paid your dues at some point or were saints in your former lives. I have no idea what the hell happened in my previous life, but my in-law karma is not the best.
Anyway.
I’ve got a theory. You know I always do. As uneducated and misguided as it may be.
I think that most of the time, when the in-laws fall on the more likeable side, it’s because you may have had a little bit of a rocky relationship with your own parents. And that’s okay. I’m not judging. Shoot. The fact that my parents will even throw me a bone, much less go to dinner with me…well…that speaks volumes.
For them.
No…I’m not kidding. I was not always as put together as you think of me today. At one point in my life, I would really speak my own mind. I would say what I thought before the thought had even fully formed. And then I would watch my parents’ faces as they looked like they were getting blind-sided by a semi in slow motion.
Thank God I stopped doing that last week.
I wouldn’t trade the relationship I have with my parents for anything. Heck…they’re great. Beyond great. I’m thinking about erecting statues in my front yard of my entire immediate family. God knows they’ve earned it for putting up with me during the last few years.
I’m just waiting on HOA approval.
But if there are deals to be made…could I exchange about 5% of my good relationship with my parents for a 5% increase in my relationship with my in-laws? Tell you what…I’ll give you one extra disagreement with my mom about my wardrobe if you give me a couple of birthday cards for my kids from my in-laws. Deal?
Wait…who in the hell am I talking to? Ah yes. Reality. And Reality hasn’t listened to me in a few years, so I guess I better just save it.
So here we are. We promised “til death do us part.” And, if I remember correctly, there was no fine print. There was nothing that said:
Unless the first party should pass on waaaaaay earlier than the second party (that’d be you) anticipated, therefore entitling the second party to a lifetime of servitude and polite smiles while the third party (that’d be the in-laws) shall run over the second party with an emotional steamroller, thereby ensuring the second party at least 30 extra years in therapy.
The truth is that even in good times, the in-law relationship is a little complicated. Those men out there who are reading this…I’m sorry…you can usually complain all you want about your mothers-in-law. But try navigating a relationship with a woman whose baby you stole and had the nerve to marry. It’s not pretty. For most of us women…our parents were just happy to get us off their hands. I mean, my dad told me that he would give me $50 cash and a ladder if I promised to elope and spare him the cost of a big wedding.
I was about 12 at the time.
So we’re all already up to our ears in in-law quicksand and then our spouses get sick or die suddenly. And if that doesn’t complicate an already complicated relationship, I don’t know what does. If you were able to get through the illness without incident, I applaud you. If you managed to get out of the hospital on speaking terms, you should get a medal. And if you happened to get your spouse to his/her final resting place and still have any sort of contact with your in-laws, then I’m going to add you to those statues I’m putting up in my front yard.
Unless you’re one of those people who fell under choice D. You guys have had it too good already.
© Catherine Tidd 2010
Showing posts with label relationship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationship. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Tell It Like It Is
One of the hardest things about losing my husband was missing the person I felt completely comfortable with. You know…that person you can hang out with in ripped, paint spattered sweatpants with your hair in a scrunchy that you’ve held on to since the 80s. That person who will tell you when you have spinach in your teeth.
That person who will just flat-out say when you’re doing something dumb and you won’t hesitate to extend them the same courtesy.
Now, most people don’t think about this. But when you’re left to start all over, all you’re left with are a lot of people you have to be polite to. And you really don’t miss that level of rude honestly until it’s gone.
Like, I can’t say to my friend, “You’re going out in that?” Or I guess I could but I bet I would find myself friendless before too long. I can’t say to my dog, “For God’s sake, brush your teeth in the morning before you kiss me.” Because she really doesn’t care. And if I’m out on a date for the first time, I can’t just blurt out, “That’s nice. But wait until you hear about my day” because he could really probably give a crap about what’s going on with me.
I missed having that person around that I could talk to and say, “You know what? You look like someone who shopped out of the bargain section of a dumpster today. But I love you anyway.” And he would return the compliment.
I don’t know if any of you achieved that level of honesty with your spouse and, to be quite honest, it took me awhile to get there with mine. But after 13 years together, we had finally gotten to the point where we could just really let ‘er rip. And now I’m always worrying about everyone’s feelings and whether or not I’ve said the right thing in the right tone of voice with the right look on my face.
I remember, not long after my husband died, having a conversation with my mother about how I had lost the only person I felt like I could be completely honest with. How it had taken me years to get to the point where I could successfully tell someone “like it is” without worrying that he would pack his duffle bag and hit the road. I think back to a conversation we had years ago that, at the time, didn’t seem important. But now, it’s like a benchmark for the start of every relationship I have.
It was my birthday. My husband had very thoughtfully taken the kids out to choose a birthday cake for me and when they came home, they presented me with a beautifully decorated ice cream cake.
But I hated ice cream cake.
As I sat through a lovely dinner and the traditional blowing of the candles, I thought to myself, “Should I just let this slide, or should I tell him?”
I finally came to the conclusion, after we had put the kids to bed, that I should just come clean and tell him that I wasn’t crazy about ice cream cake. After all, it was possible that we could be married for another 60 years and I didn’t want another 60 ice cream cakes. I reconciled this with my conscience by thinking that I was actually doing him a favor by telling him the truth. I told myself that it would be like I was lying to him if I didn’t.
The conversation went something like this:
“Sweetie…I just wanted to let you know…I’m not crazy about ice cream cake.”
“You’re not?”
“No…ice cream cake is your favorite. Not mine. I like regular cake.”
“Really? Well, I’ve never really liked your chicken parmesan.”
WHAT??
After years of making the same recipe that I thought he loved, I found out that he hated it.
We then proceeded to have a conversation for the next half hour about all of the things we had been doing that the other person disliked. There were no hard feelings. There were no tears. And I stopped making the dreaded chicken parmesan.
When I told my mother about it later, she couldn’t believe that we had actually done that. And, after he was gone and I was forced to acclimate myself to more “civilized” relationships, I couldn’t believe it either.
I mean…how many women tell their husbands they don’t like a dessert?
For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!
© Catherine Tidd 2010
That person who will just flat-out say when you’re doing something dumb and you won’t hesitate to extend them the same courtesy.
Now, most people don’t think about this. But when you’re left to start all over, all you’re left with are a lot of people you have to be polite to. And you really don’t miss that level of rude honestly until it’s gone.
Like, I can’t say to my friend, “You’re going out in that?” Or I guess I could but I bet I would find myself friendless before too long. I can’t say to my dog, “For God’s sake, brush your teeth in the morning before you kiss me.” Because she really doesn’t care. And if I’m out on a date for the first time, I can’t just blurt out, “That’s nice. But wait until you hear about my day” because he could really probably give a crap about what’s going on with me.
I missed having that person around that I could talk to and say, “You know what? You look like someone who shopped out of the bargain section of a dumpster today. But I love you anyway.” And he would return the compliment.
I don’t know if any of you achieved that level of honesty with your spouse and, to be quite honest, it took me awhile to get there with mine. But after 13 years together, we had finally gotten to the point where we could just really let ‘er rip. And now I’m always worrying about everyone’s feelings and whether or not I’ve said the right thing in the right tone of voice with the right look on my face.
I remember, not long after my husband died, having a conversation with my mother about how I had lost the only person I felt like I could be completely honest with. How it had taken me years to get to the point where I could successfully tell someone “like it is” without worrying that he would pack his duffle bag and hit the road. I think back to a conversation we had years ago that, at the time, didn’t seem important. But now, it’s like a benchmark for the start of every relationship I have.
It was my birthday. My husband had very thoughtfully taken the kids out to choose a birthday cake for me and when they came home, they presented me with a beautifully decorated ice cream cake.
But I hated ice cream cake.
As I sat through a lovely dinner and the traditional blowing of the candles, I thought to myself, “Should I just let this slide, or should I tell him?”
I finally came to the conclusion, after we had put the kids to bed, that I should just come clean and tell him that I wasn’t crazy about ice cream cake. After all, it was possible that we could be married for another 60 years and I didn’t want another 60 ice cream cakes. I reconciled this with my conscience by thinking that I was actually doing him a favor by telling him the truth. I told myself that it would be like I was lying to him if I didn’t.
The conversation went something like this:
“Sweetie…I just wanted to let you know…I’m not crazy about ice cream cake.”
“You’re not?”
“No…ice cream cake is your favorite. Not mine. I like regular cake.”
“Really? Well, I’ve never really liked your chicken parmesan.”
WHAT??
After years of making the same recipe that I thought he loved, I found out that he hated it.
We then proceeded to have a conversation for the next half hour about all of the things we had been doing that the other person disliked. There were no hard feelings. There were no tears. And I stopped making the dreaded chicken parmesan.
When I told my mother about it later, she couldn’t believe that we had actually done that. And, after he was gone and I was forced to acclimate myself to more “civilized” relationships, I couldn’t believe it either.
I mean…how many women tell their husbands they don’t like a dessert?
For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!
© Catherine Tidd 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
All the Single Ladies...Do We WANT To Put A Ring On It?
Ahhh…dating. Sooner or later this becomes every widow’s favorite topic with other widows. And there is a very good reason for this: Because we feel like it’s unacceptable to talk about it outside of the herd.
But I can guarantee you that, for most widows, it’s one of the first things we think about after our husbands die. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s human nature to wonder what comes next. And for those of us who suddenly find ourselves involuntarily single, we want to know: Am I supposed to start dating? When is it too soon to start dating? What will people say if I start dating? What will they say if I don’t?
It’s very natural to find a mate, settle down, and have kids in our twenties. That’s why hormones were invented and why birth control is not 100% effective. I often say that I miss the stupidity of my twenties when I really didn’t know what marriage meant. I just thought it would be fun to use one of those price guns at Target. I really didn’t think the whole thing through and it didn’t occur to me that by marrying my husband when I turned 20, there was a good chance that I would be with him for 70 years.
But fate is a tricky bitch and things didn’t quite turn out that way.
Now, in my 30s and having taken the vows once before, I know full well what it means to be married and smell the same gas, watch the same do-it-yourself shows, and wake up to the same morning breath (which means that he didn’t get up with the kids so that you could sleep in) every day for the rest of my life. So, forgive me if I pause before making that leap once again.
And dating isn’t as easy as it was in my twenties. I know I’m hitting the age where 49% of all the males I know will start to get divorced thereby flooding the market, but it’s still no picnic. They all come with kids, mortgages, and potentially crazy in-laws to deal with.
Now, funny enough to the male population, I seem to come with more baggage than they do. I’ve never quite understood that. Sure, I’m dealing with a loss, but I think widows and divorcees are pretty much tied in the bitterness and “it’s not fair” department. Believe me, it’s just as hard for me to accept you with your 3 children from 3 different wives as it is you to deal with me and my deceased husband. Let it go.
And now that I’m older, I’m pickier. I mean, in my twenties I was looking for a nice rear and a decent car. Now I’m grilling my potential dates on their benefits packages and the state of their health. ‘Cause let’s face it…I don’t want to lose another one.
And finally and most importantly…after you’ve been single for awhile and you start to understand that you can handle most things on your own, you start asking yourself, “Do I want to get married again?”
Don’t get me wrong. Marriage is great. But once you get used to sleeping right smack in the middle of your bed with no one to poke because he’s snoring so loud, it’s hard to go back. It would be nice to have someone to bounce the big decisions off of, but on the flip side, you don’t have to ask anyone their opinion on anything. You don’t have to shave. You don’t have to wonder when he’s going to notice that huge-ass dent in your car. If you gain 500 lbs. no one else is going to be irritated about that other than you.
Now, I know this sounds cynical and I really don’t mean for it to. But for those of us who got married in our twenties and had only the slightest taste of independence…well, that’s pretty hard to give up now. And the problem is that we’d be giving it up to start all over again. I mean, it took me 11 years to mold my husband into the man I knew he would want to be. And now, when I go out on a date, I can say within the first 20 minutes, “Nope. I don’t have the energy to train that one.” And then I go home and flop myself right smack in the middle of my bed with hairy legs and a box of chocolate.
Hey…it’s not perfect. But in my experience, Russell Stover has never snored.
For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!
© Catherine Tidd 2010
But I can guarantee you that, for most widows, it’s one of the first things we think about after our husbands die. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s human nature to wonder what comes next. And for those of us who suddenly find ourselves involuntarily single, we want to know: Am I supposed to start dating? When is it too soon to start dating? What will people say if I start dating? What will they say if I don’t?
It’s very natural to find a mate, settle down, and have kids in our twenties. That’s why hormones were invented and why birth control is not 100% effective. I often say that I miss the stupidity of my twenties when I really didn’t know what marriage meant. I just thought it would be fun to use one of those price guns at Target. I really didn’t think the whole thing through and it didn’t occur to me that by marrying my husband when I turned 20, there was a good chance that I would be with him for 70 years.
But fate is a tricky bitch and things didn’t quite turn out that way.
Now, in my 30s and having taken the vows once before, I know full well what it means to be married and smell the same gas, watch the same do-it-yourself shows, and wake up to the same morning breath (which means that he didn’t get up with the kids so that you could sleep in) every day for the rest of my life. So, forgive me if I pause before making that leap once again.
And dating isn’t as easy as it was in my twenties. I know I’m hitting the age where 49% of all the males I know will start to get divorced thereby flooding the market, but it’s still no picnic. They all come with kids, mortgages, and potentially crazy in-laws to deal with.
Now, funny enough to the male population, I seem to come with more baggage than they do. I’ve never quite understood that. Sure, I’m dealing with a loss, but I think widows and divorcees are pretty much tied in the bitterness and “it’s not fair” department. Believe me, it’s just as hard for me to accept you with your 3 children from 3 different wives as it is you to deal with me and my deceased husband. Let it go.
And now that I’m older, I’m pickier. I mean, in my twenties I was looking for a nice rear and a decent car. Now I’m grilling my potential dates on their benefits packages and the state of their health. ‘Cause let’s face it…I don’t want to lose another one.
And finally and most importantly…after you’ve been single for awhile and you start to understand that you can handle most things on your own, you start asking yourself, “Do I want to get married again?”
Don’t get me wrong. Marriage is great. But once you get used to sleeping right smack in the middle of your bed with no one to poke because he’s snoring so loud, it’s hard to go back. It would be nice to have someone to bounce the big decisions off of, but on the flip side, you don’t have to ask anyone their opinion on anything. You don’t have to shave. You don’t have to wonder when he’s going to notice that huge-ass dent in your car. If you gain 500 lbs. no one else is going to be irritated about that other than you.
Now, I know this sounds cynical and I really don’t mean for it to. But for those of us who got married in our twenties and had only the slightest taste of independence…well, that’s pretty hard to give up now. And the problem is that we’d be giving it up to start all over again. I mean, it took me 11 years to mold my husband into the man I knew he would want to be. And now, when I go out on a date, I can say within the first 20 minutes, “Nope. I don’t have the energy to train that one.” And then I go home and flop myself right smack in the middle of my bed with hairy legs and a box of chocolate.
Hey…it’s not perfect. But in my experience, Russell Stover has never snored.
For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!
© Catherine Tidd 2010
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