Twinkle: Triggered

I saw a friend last night. She said that she had seen my MIL and had a nice conversation. Of course she did, because my MIL is great at pretending to be nice in front of my friends. She has always done this, so that y’all will be like, “How can you not like your MIL? She’s SOOO sweet!!!!” 

My friend is smart and knows better than to trust her, and can see right through it. But, for some unknown reason, in the conversation, my friend told my MIL that she thinks my middle daughter looks like her.

My MIL said, “I think so too but don’t tell Twinkle that. She won’t like it.”

I hate the word triggered, but triggered does not begin to describe the RAGE that I feel about this interaction. It is almost enough to undo a year’s worth of work on distancing myself and not caring. It brings back all the anger and the hurt, times a million.

First of all…it is so typical of my MIL to be like, “Don’t tell Twinkle.” The implication here is that now MIL and my friend have a secret, just between them. They both know that E looks like MIL and can both admit it, but I can’t handle admitting the obvious, because I have a problem. I AM a problem.

The second point is the rawest wound for me, because it’s undermining me as a mother. Again. I have spent my whole life as a mother being undermined by her. As you all know, no one in that family ever ONCE said, about my babies, “She wants her mommy.” Never ONCE. She came to visit when my first baby was a week old and told my husband and me to go to the movies because “she’s too young to miss you or even know who you are.” When I remember the cruelty of that statement, as a new mother, to be so disrespected, it breaks my heart. As babies or toddlers, they could be screaming “Mommy!!!” and she’d be like, “Her feet are cold. Don’t you ever put socks on her?”

I have endured YEARS of hearing them talk about how little my children need me, and how much my children look like everyone but me. And, she’s right. I don’t like it. Maybe I would feel differently if this were a normal family. In a normal family, where everyone is respected and everyone has a place, OF COURSE I could acknowledge that my children have traits from both sides. I’m not some genetics denier. This would not be an issue if my MIL, or FIL, or anyone in the family for that matter, ever acknowledged that I played some part in the fact that my children exist. That maybe they look like me; maybe they got some facial feature or personality trait from me. 

The underlying message is that I’m not respected in this family. There is no place for me. There’s no room for me to help out on holidays. My culture doesn’t matter. My traditions are forbidden and not discussed. My children look like THEM, not me. MIL will tolerate me when she has to but everyone knows my children are really just like her, and my SIL, and my husband, and my FIL. I’m just an inconvenient but ultimately insignificant factor.

And the worst part of it all is that SHE’s the one that made this an issue. In my family (that family that she claims to know so much about, that she so maligned and called dysfunctional), of course people might look like one parent or another. It wasn’t a competition, because there was enough love and recognition for everyone to feel a part of things. “Doesn’t this baby look like her daddy?” was never a weaponized statement used to undermine someone. Every person in my family was—is—loved, and valued as an equal. Something like that would NEVER be an issue. No one would think twice about making such a statement, because no one would have any malicious intent behind it. 

This brings me to my third point of RAGE. In typical MIL fashion, she created this toxic situation, and blames me for it. She spent YEARS belittling me, undermining me, bullying me, excluding me, and now she has the AUDACITY to tell my friend, “Don’t tell Twinkle. She won’t like it.” If I’m a monster, she’s the one who created me. (I don’t think I’m a monster.)

The fourth point is most frustrating, because exactly what she said would happen did happen. I didn’t like it. I did get mad. I am filled with RAGE over it. If she tells my friend not to tell me because I’m going to get mad, and then my friend tells me and I do get mad, it just confirms everything my MIL knew about me all along. I’m just emotionally unbalanced and unhealthily attached to my children. This is just SO typical of me. MIL saw it all along and TOTALLY called it.

I can’t figure out why she hates me so much. What did I do? I will never understand.

Twinkle: Mother’s Day. Sigh.

My niece ended up staying for a week during Passover, and I love her so much. One day, she had the idea to go shopping, so I busted my girls out of school on a beautiful Thursday and we went to the mall. My MIL generously gave all the girls $100 cash to shop with, which was so nice of her and of course I thanked her profusely. I’ll never accuse her of lacking generosity; sometimes I do think she tries to buy affection because she knows she’s nasty…but that’s another topic.

Her only stipulation was not to let the girls get anything too immodest. So, of course, I let them get whatever they wanted and didn’t interfere with their choices. Among other choice wardrobe investments, my niece got one of those bras that you wear as a shirt with sweatpants, my middle got a tiny midriff-bearing tee that says “Chaotic,” and my youngest blew the entire hundred dollars on Sephora. My eldest bought a lip gloss and pocketed the rest, presumably so she and her bestie can bribe someone at CVS to buy them some White Claw again. Suck it, Grams!

I’ve been trying to have a better attitude about her, and not think about her and just be happy. I’ve mostly succeeded, but now it’s Mother’s Day and apparently I have to see her, and I really don’t want to. My FIL made brunch reservations. At Ditto’s. Did you all even know that place is still open? Apparently it is, and apparently I’m expected to go have a bacon- and mimosa-free brunch there with my MIL on Mother’s Day, which is the one day that’s supposed to be about me. And I don’t want to. 

Last year I got out of it because I did a night at the Omni with some friends. This was in the middle of all the drama, and I sort of thought I was setting a precedent of making Mother’s Day about me. Of course I wouldn’t mind sharing the day, if she were nice. Growing up I always went to church with my family on Mother’s Day, and then we would go to brunch to celebrate my mother and grandmother—usually at the Terrace (which I still miss). It was a given that we would celebrate all the mothers together. But they were nice to each other. My MIL is a monster to me, so I don’t really feel like going to Ditto’s and pretending we like each other, when everyone knows we don’t.

Another part of it is missing church. I know that sounds crazy, but church has truly helped me have a better attitude about her. It has helped me be more patient and forgiving, and more able to let it all roll off. I don’t want to miss it, for brunch with her. 

And I really don’t now the right thing to do. I try to be gracious, to show up for my husband, to smile and take the abuse and say a prayer for her every time I think something mean about her or call her a bad name in my head. That has been my strategy, and it has mostly worked. Is it selfish not to show up for brunch on Mother’s Day, or is it self-preservation? Is the right thing to go to church, skip brunch, and risk damaging an already shaky relationship? Or do I show up and smile again, and try again, knowing she is never going to like me no matter what I do, or how many times I show up or don’t show up? I truly don’t know the right thing to do.

Twinkle: Being Hated and Laughing Anyway

So, it happened again at the second Seder. 

My FIL recited a list of names of people who helped, and my name wasn’t on the list, because I wasn’t allowed to help. I don’t think he even thought that it might have been hurtful to me, because all I have ever wanted to do was be included and help. It was OK. I held it together. I really tried to be gracious. I thanked my MIL and told her it was a beautiful party (a baldfaced lie). 

Her schoolmarm side was in full effect last night. We arrived 15 minutes late, but one noticed, because my nephew Ethan had switched around all the place cards. He was a little precocious on the first night, so on the second night they placed him between his mom and another mom, so when no one was looking he rearranged all the place cards and all hell was breaking loose as we arrived 15 minutes late. I had taken a half a gummie so it was extra entertaining when she was up in Ethan’s face, pointing her finger in his face and looking stern. I was #TeamEthan all the way.

It hurt when my name wasn’t mentioned, because I wasn’t invited to help. I tried to act nice in that moment, but I did down half my glass of wine, and I wish I’d acted like I didn’t care. I’ll do better next time, with God’s help. It’s a process. When Ethan and a friend got all tickled at dinner, I laughed with them. Grams was losing her mind. She was not happy and did not find it funny, but the crowd was laughing and I was laughing loudest of all. She HATED it. It’s like she senses joy and can’t stand it when anyone is having too much fun. She was all over all the kids, shutting down fun at every turn. She just sat there looking miserable the whole time.

All I can really do is laugh at her. It’s sad that she hates joy. I just don’t know what she hates me so much. What did I do, to deserve this? I was telling AM tonight, as I was trying to figure it out, that whoever she dates or marries, I am going to love, accept, and treat with kindness. The only way that changes is if someone is emotionally or physically abusive, or cheats on her. 

So…what is her problem? I love her son. He loves me. I gave her these grandchildren. I try my best to give them a good home, and it’s not always perfect or exactly how she would do things, but I do my best. I have never cheated on her son. We have a good relationship. I’m not mean to him and I don’t emotionally manipulate him , or my kids, or anyone. I gave the Jewish thing a go, and it didn’t work, but as far as she knows I’m still part of things. So…what did I do to deserve this blatant hatred? Every other 70-year-old grandma LOVES me. I meet all these grandmas at the lacrosse games. They’re all nice, and I don’t know why I didn’t get one of those as my MIL. I know the grass is always greener and many MILs do things to annoy their daughters-in-law. My MIL doesn’t even see my humanity. She doesn’t see the good in me and she doesn’t even try to.

She came to the LAX game tonight and I said hi, thanked her for coming, and then stayed far away. That’s my strategy: be gracious, say thank you, show up when I have to, don’t interact unless I absolutely have to, and try to laugh and be joyful when I have to interact. Because she hates my joyful spirit most of all.

Twinkle: Moving On With My Day

OK. Last post on this subject for the moment.

I am walking away from this right now and choosing to go about my day. I’m going to swap out my regular dishes for the Passover dishes, which I like. They’re pretty, and I get to use them once a year, because I refuse to have a tacky Passover with paper and plastic everything, the way MIL does. 

Today, in this house, I can control the pretty Passover dishes that we use. I can fix my husband a nice lunch of chicken salad and fruit. We don’t have any Passover food here, although I’m sure my MIL will send some since she thinks I’m incapable of providing meals for my family. So fine, we might use some of that, but I ordered groceries—not thousands of dollars worth of gross processed Passover food, like she buys, but natural, unprocessed foods for my family that also fall within the rules. I am going to make a few things for the family to eat as meals or snack on, and get out my pretty dishes, and not let her into my head.

What I’m trying to say is that two things can be true at the same time: I can not let her get into my head, not let it eat at me when I’m going about my life. That’s a choice, and it doesn’t affect her either way, so I might as well choose not to give her space in my head. But, in situations like last night, when she behaves in a way that’s hurtful, I’m allowed to feel what I feel. Saying I don’t care—actually not caring—doesn’t mean that I don’t get to feel my feelings when she does something mean. 

So today, she’s not allowed in my head (after I finish this post). I’ll go about my day and make it a nice one. Tonight, if she behaves in a way that’s hurtful, I’m allowed to feel hurt in the moment, but I need to meet it with grace. What she doesn’t get to do is be in my head when I’m going about my day.

Twinkle: More Thoughts on Passover

 I was really sad and upset last night. 

Even though I have been better about not caring, even though I happily took a nap yesterday afternoon instead of cooking vegetables, it really hurt when MIL invited everyone but me to help, and then FIL thanked everyone but me. It hurt that i didn’t deserve thanks, because I didn’t help or contribute. Because I wasn’t allowed to.

And MIL knows this. She has known for years. She has never invited me to help set up, and now more than ever she knows she could extend that olive branch, but won’t. My husband wanted to talk to her or his father about it, but I said absolutely not. At this point, all I have in this family is my dignity, and I’d rather keep it than beg to be included.

I think my SIL could have advocated for me a little bit though. When FIL was thanking everyone but me, I leaned to the teenage boy next to me, family friends of SIL’s from Connecticut, and said, “I wasn’t allowed to help.” And SIL totally heard me. She knows it’s important to me. I get that she doesn’t want to cross MIL. No one does, but still it would have been nice, when they were setting up, if she had said, “Let’s invite Twinkle.” Or when MIL was assigning menu items, if she had said, “That’s the dish that Twinkle always brings; let her bring that and I’ll bring something else.”

Speaking of the food, the kale pesto dish was inedible. The key to that dish is that you have to roast all the vegetables at different times, so that everything is the right texture. So, you have to roast the potatoes for an hour, but the Brussels sprouts for 30 minutes, so that the potatoes are soft but the Brussels sprouts are crisp, etc. You sauté the mushrooms and diced cauliflower in an iron skillet. Then you toss it all in the kale pesto and keep it warm. SIL must have cooked everything altogether, and omitted the potatoes (because God forbid anyone has access to a startch in this family). I took one bite of a mushy Brussels sprout that had been cooked almost beyond recognition. It was horrible.

To add insult to injury, there was another item that had never been on the Passover menu before: the sweet potatoes that I bring to Thanksgiving. Scott’s grandmother had a friend, Miss Thelma, who died a couple of years ago, and she always brought her famous sweet potatoes to Thanksgiving. (Thanksgiving is the one holiday in this family that is halfway normal, that everyone is allowed to contribute to, because it’s hosted by Scott’s very Southern and kind Aunt Amanda.) When Miss Thelma died, I asked Amanda if I could take over the sweet potatoes, because I thought they were an important family tradition. I have taken them over, and perfected them maybe even beyond Miss Thelma’s original recipe. I triple the streusel on top, and you do NOT want to know how much butter is in them.

Well, last night, there were Miss Thelma’s sweet potatoes, right there on the Passover buffet. They were horrible, too. There was barely any streusel on top, and either my MIL or SIL cut out a lot of the butter and sugar in the potato part, too. It is so typical. They take over every recipe I ever bring to anything, and ruin it.

Also, last night MIL was in rare form, making mean faces, eye rolling, and killing everyone’s joy. At dinner, all the teenagers got a glass of super sweet bubbly wine instead of grape juice. The wine barely had any alcohol content and they each sipped their one tiny glass over the course of two and a half hours. Three sets of teen parents were fine with it, but MIL was not fine with it, and she let everyone know with her eye rolls and judgment. She went over to A and cousin S and tried to lecture them. But guess what: I was fine with it. SIL was fine with it. And there was nothing Grams could do to change that.

She also couldn’t stand it during one of the songs when E and cousin S were getting a little silly and joking around. They weren’t bothering anyone but were just having fun—it was what family memories were made of, but she just could not stand it. She cannot stand when anyone has fun or joy. She has to crush it. She actually yelled at cousin E, a precocious 10-year-old boy. No one in my family crushes joy or yells at kids at family parties. If kids get a little rambunctious, their parents might pull them aside for a talking-to, but no grandmother, great aunt, or cousin would ever dream of such a thing. (But remember, I’m the one with the dysfunctional family.)

It will all be over after tonight. I mean they have another six days of all their Passover rules, but at least I won’t have to see her and endure her eye rolls, and feel excluded. And someday, as Daddy said, she’ll be too old to do it all, and it will fall to me, and she’ll have to watch as it becomes beautiful and fun and joyful, and she won’t be able to stop it. Also, her son loves me. And my girls love me, and cousins S and E love me. I need to remember that I don’t care, and be sweet, and not complain about these raw wounds, and just play the long game.

Twinkle: I Actually Need to Slow My Roll

 Ok So I did say I didn’t care earlier. But some part of me does care. 

When we all went to the Seder tonight, my FIL started by thanking everyone who had helped. “Thank you SOOOOOOOOOOOO much, Fun Sink for making all this happen…Thank you to [SIL}…Thank you you cousin Lori…and everyone who helped…” And it was SO GALLING, because I wasn’t invited or allowed to help. I wanted to help. I would have. I have offered every year for 17+ years, only to be turned down. It’s very hurtful and it’s hard to keep my mouth shut around sympathetic family members who are kind to me. It’s not their fault because they’re not in charge, and on some level I want to let them know how awful she is to me.

At the end of the night, they cleared all the tables, putting all the plates and cups in the trash (because everything was disposable because the whole thing is tacky AF). Then, everyone was helping set the tables for tomorrow. I couldn’t help it. I said, “Oh wow! It’s the first time in 17 years of marriage I’ve actually been allowed to help! It’s a Passover miracle.” I think being fresh out of FKs and also being over it all is a bad combination, and at the end of the day it isn’t a good look for me. I want to seem kind and gracious. I want to BE kind and gracious, but this also hurts. A lot.

When I was talking to my father on the phone tonight, he listened to me. He asked me what’s going to happen to this Seder meal when MIL gets too old to run it, and the answer is it will fall to me. And I told him I hope she’s alive to see it: me, letting everyone help; making everything pretty; being in charge of the whole thing without her help. Her having to swallow that. Maybe that will be the ultimate revenge for years of being belittled, cut out, and ignored.

But I’ve been working on some things, and I really don’t want to be about revenge. I want to be about kindness and forgiveness. I’m trying hard on that. She makes it really hard. Sometimes I truly believe she is the most difficult person I have ever encountered, and God put her in my life—with no way of getting rid of her—to make me a better person. 

So the point is, being a better person means that, no matter what I want to say when she finally lets me set a table, I need to be gracious and STFU about it. It’s not a good look, and probably makes people feel awkward. I think I just want to connect with people and let them know how bad she makes me feel, but I need to tone it down. If I want people on my side, the best strategy is to be pleasant and loving to all. I should be anyway—and include her in “all”—but it’s really hard to be that way when MIL is there judging everything—which is the biggest reason why I should not let her get to me in the first place.

Twinkle: MIL’s Still Mean and I’m Still OK

So I don’t know what’s going on with me, but in the year since all this drama went down, I have been sort of…OK…with everything surrounding my MIL. I think after it all died down, I decided that I would not let it bother me. I would not let it take up space in my head. I know what she thinks about me. I know she’ll never like me, so…OK. I choose not to think about all the dumb little ways she puts me down, and either to laugh at them or just not to care, or both.

So, with Passover approaching, I didn’t do what I usually do. Usually I say, “Please let me know when you’re setting up—I’d love to help.” And she says she’s got it covered and then invites every girl in the family but me to help set up, even though I LOVE setting tables. This year, I didn’t even mention it. When it all went down, my husband told her it means a lot to me to be included when the whole family sets up for holidays. It didn’t change her approach—she still didn’t invite me—but it did change mine. I’m not offering anymore, and I don’t care. I don’t want to be somewhere I’m not wanted, anyway.

Usually, I say, “What can I bring?” And she grudgingly assigns me a vegetable, which I then knock out of the park and everyone raves about, because it’s the only thing on the menu that contains actual spices and seasonings. This year, I didn’t offer. And I don’t care if her menu is bland. I’m not offended; I’m not butthurt. I’m not going to get all histrionic about it. 

So last night we all had to go to dinner with them, and my husband was trying to be helpful. He said, to me in front of my MIL, “Are you bringing anything tomorrow?” I wish he hadn’t because I was trying to go into this with dignity, but he was trying to be helpful. I directed my answer to my MIL, and said, “I can, if you need something.” She said she has it covered. Of course she does. She doesn’t need me to bring anything. Then my SIL, who I have been cool with for the past year, said, “It’s OK because I’m bringing a pesto dish this year.”

Now. Deep breath, because talking about this actually makes me care, and these people just aren’t allowed into my head anymore. But let me just say many years ago I brought a wonderful salad, with kale, lemon juice, quinoa, mangoes, tomatoes, edamame, avocados—it was a great salad, healthy and delicious, and everyone loved it. I brought it a couple of times and eventually my MIL, in classic MIL fashion, turning it around on me, said, “Oh that salad is a lot of work or you—I’ll make it this time.” And I lost the salad that everyone loved. 

A few years ago, I MADE UP a Passover recipe involving fingerling potatoes, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, mushrooms, diced cauliflower, which I roasted and then tossed in a lemony kale pesto. These people are assholes about their health foods, and their kosherness, their strict keeping of Passover rules, and are just really hard to cook for. So they all loved the roasted vegetables in the kale pesto. It IS good. My kids eat it. Everyone eats it. So when my SIL wanted the recipe, OF COURSE I shared it, because I’m not an asshole. So now I’ve lost that too.

And I truly don’t care. This means I can spend my day doing something other than cooking. And they are NOT ALLOWED in my head anymore. I keep them at arm’s length, show up when I’m expected to, but I’m not going to let it all get to me anymore. I can’t control who brings what to the Passover menu, but I can control how I react to it, and my choice is not to worry about it.

But…isn’t that so rude? And I don’t know what I ever did to this woman to make her hate me so much. I tried to join her family and her religion. I gave her three beautiful grandchildren. I love her son. I do everything for my family. What did I do wrong with her? In my heart I know the problem is her, so I feel sorry for her. But…why am I not making my own kale pesto vegetable recipe that I made up, when she knows just bringing anything means a lot to me?

Last year in that fateful phone call, she told my husband, “I’ve done 15 years worth of trying,” (meaning she has tried to have a good relationship with me, but I’m the difficult one). Here’s the deal, though. My husband has told her flat out, both in the past and that day, “It means a lot to Twinkle to be included when the family sets up.” “It means a lot to contribute food to family parties.” So if she really cared, and she really were trying, she would have done those things initially, and in the past year more than ever. I can say that I have tried to be gracious to her n the past year. Cautiously gracious, because I don’t want her too close, but I have gone above and beyond to try to treat her like a normal member of my family, and not to be hurt when she doesn’t reciprocate.

Also…maybe I have said this before, but in my family—a normal family—we all have our signature dishes. Beth is great at making potato salad. Marilyn, who lives on a farm, makes corn pudding with corn from her garden for Thanksgiving dinner. My mother was known for her deviled eggs. My grandmother was the expert at Benedictine sandwiches. No one tries to take these away. No one dictates from above who should bring what, and when one person masters a signature dish, it doesn’t later get assigned to someone more favored. Everything on the menu is delicious, and all the glory is shared. Actually, no one really needs glory in my family, because they’re all secure in themselves. Compliments are given freely and genuinely, so everyone feels valued.

But, according to her, we’re the dysfunctional ones and I can’t help my actions because that’s just how I was raised. 

I would also like to point out that my brother-in-law, who she damaged her relationship with (as probably recorded here on Daddy Rabbit), isn’t even coming in for Passover. He gets out of coming here every chance he gets, because of her.

It’s really ok. I can choose not to get all upset about it, but I just had to record the toxic, petty, manipulative ways she belittles me and tries to keep me down. She can’t though, if I don’t let her. Also, that salad went way downhill when she took it over, because she doesn’t follow the recipe exactly and reduces things she finds less healthy (in a kale salad containing tomatoes, quinoa, mangoes, edamame, and avocado…she doesn’t use enough dressing because the dressing has a little bit of sugar or agave in it). So anyway, the salad I introduced to the family sucks now, and I don’t have high hopes for the kale pesto dish either.