Twinkle: Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be B*tchy Mothers-in-Law

I had an epiphany while I was in the shower, letting my mind wander to thoughts of genealogy.

Most of y'all know my sweet grandmother, a true kind-hearted Southern lady. She finds friends wherever she goes--even on Facebook--and she doesn't discriminate based on social class, race (she's 95! Take that, Paula Deen), or even age. She'll be the one talking to some toothless tacky person in the Target, and all the current sorority girls at her college consider her a friend--because, yes, she volunteers there daily. She's not afraid to get her hands dirty philanthropically (like I so hate to do). She personally takes up with immigrants, unwed teenage mothers, people in prison, and the elderly--most of whom are younger than she is--and makes sure they all have winter coats, food on the table, and access to the Bible. Did I mention everybody likes her? And she likes everybody. Just last night she mentioned to me that she wants to start visiting people in nursing homes, where she plans to read them entertaining short stories.

But she had mother-in-law issues.

And then I started thinking about her mom, Nanna, who died when I was a baby, but who was apparently just as sweet, and who also had mother-in-law issues. Her mother-in-law didn't like her specifically because she came from a WASPy family and wasn't German. (I like to imagine that mean mother-in-law spinning in her grave if she ever thinks of me).

Anyway...I was thinking about these mothers-in-law, and how I'm actually their direct descendant. I've heard tales of their meanness, but all my life I never considered that these noted b*tches are a part of my family tree; I have never thought of them as great-grandmothers. I've only thought of them as mothers-in-law, mean old crones who enjoyed pointing out the runs in peoples' pantyhose. (Thank goodness I don't wear pantyhose anymore--I'm sure Fun Sink would eat that sh*t right up). Imagine my surprise when I realized these mean mothers-in-law are actually related to me!

I don't claim to be nearly as sweet as my grandmother or Nanna--that's not what this is about. Although I do think they were wrongly persecuted by their mothers-in-law and I think I'm wrongly persecuted by mine. My point is this: their meanness damaged their images to the child of a future generation (me). Because my grandmother and Nanna were the ones raising the children, and the ones passing down their own traditions and stories. And among those stories were a few sad tales of mother-in-law meanness, the specifics of which I don't even remember. Except for the bit about the pantyhose--that always stood out.

They made their choices; they withdrew their support. And the family sort of went on without  them. They made themselves footnotes to the family story, instead of part of the real action. It's a cautionary tale, really. Fun Sink should take note. But she won't. And one day my children will see her for who she is. I'm sure they'll always love her--and they should, because she's their grandmother and it would be sad if they didn't. But nobody likes it when somebody's mean to their mother, and she's risking making herself a footnote in their family story.

Bless Her Heart: Dibbs

I've been watching the Paula Deen footage all day; her heart-wrenching apologies, and her abrupt yank from the Food Network.  I thought she hurled the N-Word at somebody.  Finally, a few minutes ago, I saw the offending remarks.  Yes, they were offensive.  Here's the thing.  Don't ask a 60-something from Georgia about race relations in the South if you want a perfectly P.C. answer.

She didn't offend me.  I don't think she meant to offend with her words.  She just didn't know how to phrase things like a modern woman.  Paula needed to stay away from all those Yankees if she was going to talk about something other than butter.  "I have a boy who's like a son to me, and he's black as that board," sounds terrible; but I bet she meant it affectionately.  I've joked about #1's butt.  Just not on t.v.  Because, you know, I know better.

Poor Paula.  Bless.  And I really don't mean than bitchy.

Twinkle: Fun Sink's Limp, Cold, Unseasoned Vegetables Don't Make a Strong Case For Healthy Eating

So, apparently Fun Sink is the reason my oldest daughter doesn't eat vegetables.

Y'all know that Miss E is a foodie extraordinaire and eats everything, but I always put a bite of veggies or whatever on A's plate, just in case she decides to try something new. Last night she decided to have a small bite of broccoli, and she admitted that she occasionally eats the broccoli they serve at school, but she likes it better cooked. (E is more of a raw broccoli eater).

Naturally, I steamed some broccoli for tonight's dinner and served it to both girls. A wasn't eating it, so I said, "I thought you said you liked cooked broccoli--that's why I made it. You know, I put a little bit of seasoning on it, so it actually has some flavor to it--not like [Fun Sink's] plain broccoli without any flavoring." (Yes, that was kind of a b*tchy thing to say. Let that be a lesson to the boy mamas of the world: be nice to your sons' wives, because your sons' wives will always hold the power, especially over your grandchildren).

A tasted it and liked it, and asked dramatically, "Why doesn't [Fun Sink] put any flavoring on her vegetables? Why doesn't she want things to taste good?" Why doesn't she want things to taste good? A more powerful insult to the longsuffering Fun Sink I cannot imagine.

I said, "Is that the reason you haven't liked broccoli all these years? Because of the way [Fun Sink] makes it?" 

She nodded.

Great job, Fun Sink. Your shitty vegetable preparation (to which Lola can attest) has cost my child years of vegetable eating.

And here's what I don't understand: Fun Sink will make at least two--probably more--desserts for every meal. At your average meal there are cookies, two kinds of cake, a pie, and of course something involving Cool Whip, because y'all know Fun Sink loves the Cool Whip. But she cannot throw some damn salt and pepper and lemon juice on the broccoli to make it edible, because that would be unhealthy.

At least we cleared the air and A likes broccoli now. And also, score one for my superior cooking--at least to my children's palates.

One Request: Dibbs

Sometimes I take a while to read through all the posts.  It's a good thing I see y'all a lot.  Anyway, I know we're being healthy, but, Twinkle, will you make me some of those jello grapes from Pinterest?  I could do it; it's just that you're so good at it.  xo

Julep: on looking gift horses in the mouth

I feel ungrateful to be always complaining about how my mother-in-law likes to buy things for my household, but that's why we have this blog, right?

Back in April, the Bear needed summer clothes: he had no shorts that fit him, and few shirts with short sleeves. I mentioned this to Mr-Mama. At the time, he was wearing mostly 24-month sizes, but still had some larger 18-month stuff that fit. Accordingly, I told her that his size was 24-month. She went to Kohl's and spent a ton of money on shorts and shirts that were all size 2T. They were miles too big for him, and when I told her they were the wrong size, she said they didn't have anything in 24-month and got all stubborn about how he would grow into them. Well, yeah, it's possible that he may move up a size by the end of the summer and need these clothes, but right now he has nothing to put on and these didn't fit.

Rather than argue with her any longer, I just put all the stuff in a bag and returned it to Kohl's for store credit, which I then used to buy shorts and shirts in the size he actually wears. I also discovered that when she said they didn't have his size, she meant that the specific items she bought him were not available in the "infant" department, only the toddler department. OK, lady, but here's the thing - he's not going to magically get big enough to wear those clothes just because they have a sale on Osh Kosh.

Whatever. I chalked it up and moved on, figuring that by the time he is big enough for those clothes, she will have forgotten exactly what she bought and won't notice that he never wears them. Then came yesterday.

I dropped the Bear off for an afternoon visit (bless her) and she had a bag of stuff for me, some for the Seagull and some for Bear - including one pair of matching outfits which I just knew would give Mr. J a coronary. She bought the Gull's outfits in two different sizes, not knowing what she was wearing. The Bear's were all 2T. I couldn't tell from the tags if this was another Kohl's extravaganza, and frankly I didn't feel like hauling another load in to return, so I handed his back and said, "oh, this was so nice of you, but none of this will fit him." She said, "That's the same size I bought him last time," and I said, "yes, and I told you last time that he is not in size 2T yet." She kept on about the last stuff she bought, and finally I had to say that I took it all back to exchange, and I would be happy to do the same with this if she would tell me where it came from. She got all big-eyed and started listing off individual items ... "the little Chaps shirt with the stripes? You took that back?" Agony.

She got super huffy about how she wished I had told her that it wasn't the right size, and it was all I could do to stay diplomatic while repeating, "I'm very sorry but I thought I made that clear." In a tone of noble sacrifice she said she would take these latest things back to exchange herself. On the way out the door I saw a giant bag of stuff that I greatly suspect was also for him in the wrong size.

I wish I had just kept my mouth shut. Not only is she all up in arms and offended, but now I'm going to be stuck with her selections. I prefer that the Bear wear shirts with collars, and I don't do t-shirts with slogans, but she pays no attention to my taste. One t-shirt in particular will never see the light of day ... the chances that I am going to put a shirt on my kid that says "Ahoy ladies"? Zero, no matter how many anchors are decorating it.

All I'm saying is, if you want to waste your money shopping for things that you like, regardless of the size or taste of the intended recipient, don't get all offended when your shit gets exchanged. Seems simple enough.

Julep: No limits

The Mr. Family has no sense of boundaries. Case in point:

Just a few moments ago, I was trying to put the Bear down for his nap. It was 11:30 a.m., a pretty normal time for such. But the dogs started barking like crazy, and they just kept on barking as though someone was right up at the house - I figured it was the UPS man. But the Bear would not be quieted: I had told him he would be seeing his granny after his nap, and he was convinced she was here. So finally I took him downstairs - where I found Mr-Aunt had let herself in the unlocked back door.

I must have given her a "why are you in my house" face because she opened with, "I tried knocking at the front and the back." Yes, I said, we were trying to take a nap. She handed me an envelope with our carnival raffle tickets from church and announced, "I picked up everyone's envelope at church at 9:00 Mass on Sunday, I've just been dropping them off."  After a few more awkward exchanges, she left.

Problem the first. If you want to drop something off at my house, there are two polite options open to you: (1) you can call ahead to ask if I'm home and if it's a convenient time for a short visit, or (2) you can drop it through my mail slot and be on your way without disturbing the whole fan-damily. It is never socially acceptable to let yourself into my house, no matter what you've brought with you.

Second problem: if you are making a spontaneous midday visit to the home of two children under the age of two, and your knock goes unanswered while your presence sets the dogs into hysterics, maybe consider the nap possibility and bolt from the front of the house. Don't prowl around and see if there is an unlocked door you can use to get into the house.

(Sidebar: if I hadn't come downstairs, how long do you think she would have poked around? She called out for Mr. J when she heard me on the stairs, but whatever, lady: she had just walked down the driveway staring straight at the open garage in which Mr. J's truck is clearly absent. My car was there, so either I'm the only adult present or we are all gone.)

Third problem, the least immediately obvious overstepping: this whole undertaking was unnecessary. She goes to 9 am Mass, which is not even the last Mass of the weekend - and this was the first weekend the tickets were set out. Why would she think she should pick up our tickets?Although some of the Mr-Family (like my FIL and MIL) are not regular church-goers, our household is punctilious about weekly attendance. If something at church needs picking up, I'm quite capable of doing that for myself. In fact, doing it for me is only likely to cause me trouble, as I will stand in the back of church frantically sorting through allegedly alphabetized envelopes trying to find ours while my toddler yells "outside!" to advertise the fact that we are sneaking out during Communion. Not that such an event has happened.

Judgy Grandma used to pick up our tickets for us ... and pay for them on the spot, then call to say, "Don't worry about your carnival tickets, I took care of everyone's." That was a real favor. This was just an excuse for Mr-Aunt to get all up in other people's business.

I know my MIL was not home this morning - she's golfing, that is why the Bear won't see her until this afternoon. I will bet cash money that Mr-Aunt let herself in over there too.

Twinkle: Fun Sink Can't Help But Meddle

Rule of thumb: when you enter a room and the conversation noticeably dies down, they're either talking about you or they're talking about something that's none of your business.

This happened to me tonight post-dinner. I'd been chasing little girls around and was going to return to the table and sit down with Mr. Twinks and his anorexic dad. When I approached the table, their hushed whispers ceased. Since I really didn't think they were talking smack about me, I concluded that the topic was none of my business and went elsewhere in Grandma-in-law's condo.

Since Mr. Twinks is an estate planning attorney and his dad's an accountant, sometimes they have the same clients. There are also family members who use them both and their duties overlap so they talk about that stuff sometimes, and it's confidential. Also, sometimes they talk about super-secret Jewish community intrigues that I couldn't care less about. So...they're either talking about tax clients or some stupid budgetary issue that went down at the latest JCC board meeting...either way I don't care and it's none of my business, and it would be stupid and inappropriate of me to sit down and say, "What? What are you all talking about?"

It's called taking social cues; Fun Sink should learn about it.

When we got home, I brought it up the fact that I'd almost sat down but could tell they were talking about something private.

Me: Were you and your dad talking about something top secret when I walked in? It seemed like you all got really quiet, so I tried to excuse myself gracefully.

Mr. Twinkle: Oh, yeah. We were talking about [relative/client's name]. You weren't at all inappropriate. Unlike my mom.

Apparently Fun Sink knew exactly who they were talking about, and kept obnoxiously poking her head in and trying to eavesdrop. And the best part: Mr. Twinkle thought it was annoying and inappropriate. He knows she's nothing but a meddling old gossipmonger.

How does it feel to be the cool, understanding, privacy-respecting wife, standing in stark contrast to the nosy, meddling mother? It feels fabulous, I tell you!

Twinkle: Leave E Alone And Keep Your Food Issues To Yourself!

E's my foodie, and her palate is refined. She eats mushrooms and quinoa and things flavored with rosemary. She eats broccoli and cauliflower. She eats tahini and hummus. She eats chicken and salmon and steak. She eats kik wot and injera at the Ethopian place up the street. She eats beans by the gallon. I've got no cause for complaint in regards to her eating habits, so I usually just leave her alone at mealtimes, because her whole approach to food is adventurous--why would I mess with a good thing?

She's never liked berries. And I usually just leave her alone about it. Some people don't like certain foods. She eats pretty much everything else, so she doesn't have to eat berries if she doesn't want to.

Well, the other day at my mom's house, she apparently ate some chocolate-covered blueberries, which she loved and now talks about all the time and calls "chocolate-covered blue babies." (Her big sister AM's favorite doll is named Blue Baby). I think it's the cutest thing ever.

So tonight, there were blueberries on the table. E started talking about the chocolate-covered blue babies, and Fun Sink had to swoop in and get all judgy. First of all, she was totally trying to correct the "blue baby" thing by annunciating the word "blueberries." Screw that, Fun Sink--I am calling them blue babies from now on and E can do the same for as long as she wants to! But then Fun Sink had to go on and on about how healthy they are and how good for you the plain ones are and blah blah blah. E doesn't like them, and she doesn't have to eat them. Leave her the hell alone!

The dinner was supposed to be at our house but Fun Sink doesn't want me to have too much power, so it was moved to Grandma-in-law's. And it's a little annoying in principle, but it was also a lot less work, and my girls and I would rather hang out poolside, so I didn't put up too much (any) protest. I was also asked to bring a salad. Contributing to a meal! Unprecedented!

I went to my favorite vegan Web site and chose the Speedy Summer Hemp Power Salad (I was attracted by the word "speedy" and--I'm not going to lie--part of me was hoping for hallucinogenic effects that would take me, tripping, far from the weekly dinner). It also seemed like a rare dish that FIL could eat. I didn't make it to Whole Foods so I had to get regular corn--I got the kind with extra GMOs. The man is at his middle school weight. What he really needs in his hemp power salad are some artificial bovine growth hormones.

I was halfway through stripping the fresh corn off the cob when I remembered he probably doesn't even eat corn. Not enough nutrients--it's pure sugar! Sure enough, he didn't eat the salad that I made specifically for him. Actually, he didn't eat any of the dinner of salmon, rice, and unseasoned vegetables. He brought his own damn salad from home, brother-in-law-style.

But my kid is weird for liking chocolate-covered blue babies and pretty much everything else--healthy or not-so-healthy--that she comes across. (Except berries). Leave her alone and keep your food issues to yourself! And you can stick your salad that you brought from home where the sun doesn't shine!

Twinkle: Pinterest Pressure

Julep's post reminded me of When Harry Met Sally.

"Is one of us supposed to be a dog in this scenario?"

Anyway, I probably only have a few minutes of quiet time/nap time left in which to comment, but I'm just hopping on to join the conversation and say that Pinterest makes us all feel like failures if we're not doing the cornstarch painting thing, toning our thigh muscles in 20 simple twice-daily steps, cleaning our ovens with this one secret ingredient, making our own homemade, organic goldfish crackers, and embroidering exotic tropical birds onto a size-medium man's bodystocking. Now, I love Pinterest, but has anything been so regressive and oppressive since the advertising campaigns of the 1950s?

I get that it's aspirational, and I have made some recipes or done some crafts from there, but as soon as Pinterest stops feeling fun and starts feeling like work--or worse, makes me feel bad about myself--I put it down and rejoin the real world, where there are all kinds of moms making all kinds of choices. And very few of them are actually making and using nontoxic paint from cornstarch.

Lola: The Post-Baby Blues

In response to Julep's melancholy post, I wanted to offer my own experience. One of the things I knew before I even contemplated having a child was that I am not cut-out to be a stay-at-home mother. I *hated* baby-sitting, unless the kids were old enough to watch a movie in which I was half-way interested. Otherwise, I am not someone who wants to "craft" with children for days on end. My mini-Lo and I have a basket of markers, stickers, and an art pad that we will pull-out from time to time, and a bucket of chalk for the driveway, but that is it. I was actually shocked to learn that a child mini-Lo's age should be proficient with scissors(the safety-scissor variety, sure, but still...?). For many reasons, including this one, I am so thrilled that mini-Lo gets to do all these things with a group of kids being led by a professional with child-development experience. Take a look at this photo and, although all the happy faces have been blocked out, I can assure that this activity will never take place at my house:

That's mini-Lo in the middle, wearing the yellow apron, with non-toxic finger paint all over his grubby, little hands. My office door and a better part of my office h-vac unit are covered with art projects which mini-Lo has gotten to do at school, and these are just the ones that made it past the garbage can on the way into the house at the end of each school day. I certainly know that each mother and each child is different, but I can tell you that my child would not have half as much fun with me if we both didn't have other outlets for our skills - me: office work; him: toddler-aged craftiness. Then when we are together, we go places! When he and his daddy are together (unsupervised), they are usually playing on an ipad or watching TV...but hey, priorities...and at least that time is limited.

Truly, my maternity leave felt like one of the worst times of my life. And as I sat in a chair, bleary-eyed and nursing (or pumping), I often wondered how anybody managed to do that with a second child (presumably a toddler) running around. Same with sleeping! How does that even happen when there are more than one child? So super props to Julep and Twinkle for having the chutzpah and grit to push past the far-limits of where I know my sanity ends. And also, the only time when I was convinced that my marriage was dysfunctional was in those first three/four post-partum months. Admittedly, I am not my most charming when I am sleep-deprived and feeling incompetent, and most days my husband seemed to me to be less competent than I. Furthermore, I will admit I was totally tracking how much time and effort each of us was putting into the baby-endeavor and comparing my lot with his....and feeling very aggrieved. So an awesome camaraderie-building exercise newborns are not. Give me an eff-ing ropes course any day!

So that is my stream-of-consciousness on the subject. Now I have a brief to type, whilst my child is supposedly eating an organic meal and planning out his nap-time strategy. He will likely be playing outside later today and tomorrow at school he will have his Spanish lesson. I think he might know the word "Hola", but that's about it. But no matter how we get there, we are all doing our best to just keep them alive and you, Dear Julep, are doing a great job! Bear is always so happy when I see him and he is not suffering in the least for lack of corn-starch finger-painting....because, at the very least, he will have a little sister with whom to plan coup-attempts against the authoritarian regime in the not-to-distant future.

Julep: specialization of labor

Maternity leave is kicking my butt. I cried most of the afternoon yesterday and picked two enormous fights with Mr. J last night and this morning (or maybe one long fight with a nap in the middle). We are not thriving on so much togetherness. We just don't prioritize the same things when it comes to how to fill time, and this close up view on how the other person spends his time engenders a lot of frustration.

But that is not what I came here to write about - I am here to talk about yesterday's tear fest. My mom, bless her litt!e heart, was trying so hard to be helpful when I told her that I have run out of new ideas for things to do with the Bear. (It's been six weeks. We've been more than once to the zoo, the library, multiple parks ... thank heavens the pool is now open.) She sent me a bunch of links to websites that are full of ideas for things you can do with your toddler- make finger paint out of cornstarch and food coloring, and sh!t like that. Instead of feeling inspired I felt profoundly depressed.

I hate crafts. There's a reason I refuse to take part in Pinterest. It makes me feel hugely inadequate. I love my kid, I really do, but I don't want to spend my afternoon on fingerpaint. The worst part is, I am sure he would really love it. So I feel like a crappy mom because I am denying him the opportunity to spend the afternoon playing arctic explorer with a laundry tub of ice water and whatever the hell else the stay-at-home-moms on the internets have dreamed up lately.

My hat is off to everyone who wants to live this full-time parent gig. Truly, you have my respect. But I am not cut out for it anymore than I think the average stay-at-home mom is cut out to spend her hours as a litigator. It's not a question of one job being harder or better or smarter or whatever. There are all kinds of dogs, right? (Stick with me here.) There are dogs that herd sheep and dogs that pull carts and dogs that retrieve ducks. And right now I feel like a dog with a very well-trained nose, and suddenly I'm spending twelve weeks pulling a dog sled. I'm not built for this work.