I have more than willingly allowed my mother-in-law to come see Ben, under the requirement that she remain on her medication and continue seeing her psychiatrist. She was doing great for a while. Stopped plopping down on my floor and dumping her purse all over. Stopped squeeking (because she is not allowed to scream in my house) unintelligable phrases to show how excited she is that there’s a bird outside. Lately, though, it’s started getting strange again.
While being pet by my mother-in-law as Ben napped on my lap, I noticed a curiously filled pillowcase sitting on Ben’s swing. I didn’t have an opportunity to ask before my mother-in-law skittered over there to grab it. She fiddled with it for a moment and, I shit you not, pulled a ukulele out of a pillowcase. A ukulele. Out of a pillowcase.
I’ll wait while the strangeness soaks in.
My mother-in-law was a little annoyed because Ben had been napping for about 30 minutes. “Is he going to wake up anytime soon so I can play for him?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t napped this morning so I’m going to let him rest.”
“I wish he was awake! He’d love this! I WISH HE WAS AWAKE! Can I play it and maybe it’ll wake him up?”
This is where I look horrified and Eric’s aunt says, “I’m sure he’ll love it another day. He’s napping.”
“CAN I WAKE HIM UP?”
“Um, well…I…” My need to be polite in front of company superceeded the needed to tell my mother-in-law that she was batshit crazy.
And then, she began to play and sing.
Seriously. She played the ukulele and sang, loudly, in an attempt to wake Ben. Her fingers were slipping off the ukulele, she was trying to play that thing so forcefully. She was quite cranky when, at the end of her song, Ben had done no more than snore. He hadn’t even wiggled slightly. At this point, I called victory and expected to move on.
I was premature.
Another song began, more loudly. Another wailing on the poor ukulele in an attempt to wake Ben. I looked around at the rest of the room, just to see if anyone else had the “I can’t fucking believe this is happening” look I’m sure I had on my face. I found Eric’s aunt and dad staring at the ground (”We are not related” faces), his cousin with his hand over his downcast eyes (”I cannot be related”), Eric averting his eyes in any direction but his mother’s (”I’m not here, this is not happening”) and his uncle fast asleep, his head all the way back on the couch, mouth wide open. The man.was.out. I immediately wondered if I might be on candid camera or in a new National Lampoon’s movie. It was surreal, to say the least.
At the end of the second song, there was a bit of discourse between his aunt, his mother and his cousin. His aunt and cousin talking gently, his mother…well, not.
Mother-in-law: “WHAT’S ANOTHER SONG?!”
Aunt: Tom (cousin) liked that dog song when he was little. What song was that, Tom?
Tom: I don’t know.
Mother-in-law: “DOG?” She begins singing some random dog song.
Aunt: “No, no, that’s not it. The dog song. Tom, you remember.”
Tom: I don’t know.
Mother-in-law: “DOG?!” Another random dog song.
Aunt: “No, no! Tom, what was that song?”
Tom: I have no idea. I was like 3.
Mother-in-law: “DOOOOOOOOOG?!” Seemingly begins singing the correct dog song and the aunt joins in. “No! That’s not right! Stop!” Because, apparently, the aunt was not singing in the correct key or the correct words and the ukulele was not quite in the beating position yet.
They started over. They sang different words through a dog song, mother-in-law as loudly as she could. Tom looked horrified. Eric’s dad stared at the floor. Eric stared at the ceiling. His uncle snored. I tried not to get up and run Ben out of the room, hollering, “These are not your genes! You are not destined to become this! YOU WILL BE NORMAL!”
After the dog song failed to wake the sleeping baby, mother-in-law shoved the ukulele back in the pillowcase and grumbled, “He’s going to sleep all day. We’re going to go.” I was grateful. I loved his aunt, I loved his cousin, I love his dad and his uncle was a great guy, too but his mom is such a bundle of nervous energy that it’s really hard to enjoy time with her. Especially when there are people around that she’s hoping to impress, she seems to lose all semblence of sanity.
Just as I was saying good-byes and thanking my lucky stars that the day had ended, my mother-in-law proceeds to proclaim, in obvious hopes that everyone would hear, “I hope you let us see him again!” Wow. Well, you know how much I love the whole victim act! Of course you can come over again! Since I’ve been such a racuous bitch and have allowed you to come visit whenever you express an interest, you can totally come over even sooner to try to wake up my baby with rabid ukulele sing-a-longs, feel me up and then throw guilt trips at me as you leave! I’m so excited, I could vomit.
And, my poor husband’s response, in his ever so sweet, avoidance sort of way, to the entire incident? “That was my ukulele.”
Does anyone remember that scene from 16 candles? The scene where Sam’s grandma mentions she’s gotten “her boobies”, sighs “and they’re so perky” and proceeds to feel her up? Well…picture that exact same moment with me as Molly Ringwald and my mother-in-law as the old lady with the roaming hands. In front of Eric’s aunt, uncle and cousin visiting from out of town.
Okay, so she didn’t grab my boobs or anything but it was just as uncomfortable and it’s something I’d rather repress for the rest of my life. Of course, instead, I post it here so I can just keep reliving it and, hopefully, make you all cringe just a little with me.
Eric’s aunt, uncle and cousin arrived first. They called a little over an hour before they were due and, when Eric informed them that we were not ready, they advised us not to look out our window as they were parked out front.
Ifreakedthefuckout.
They came back 30 minutes later. When Eric’s parents showed up about 30 minutes past due, we’d all gotten settled and comfortable with one another. That didn’t last.
We all know how my mother in law feels about me so imagine my surprise when she walked in, made a bee-line towards me, stared me in the eyes as if we’d been having a secret affair and began rubbing up my arm. “Oh, I missed you. I missed you so much. I missed you.”
“Oh…kay.” What the hell was I supposed to say to that one? “Oh yeah? Well, I tried everything to get out of this whole encounter and it didn’t work so that whole missing thing? Totally one-sided. And get off me because you’re giving me the creeps.”
Later that afternoon, Ben was sleeping on my lap. My 73-year-old mother-in-law crawled from across the room and began stroking his arm, “Oh, he’s so soft!” She asked her sister to come over, “feel him. Isn’t he so soft?”
“Yes, he is.” Eric’s aunt, very gingerly, rubbed Ben a couple of times and then went to go back and sit down.
“And feel her! She’s soft, too!” My mother-in-law began feeling up my arm again.
“Oh…uh…okay.” His poor aunt gave me a bit of an apologetic look, touched me once and sat down.
Eric, sitting next to me, looked horrified then looked away. Very apparently trying to pretend as if it weren’t happening. Great, way to protect me from your molesting mama there, bud.
Really, though, what the hell kind of encounter is that? Who feels people up and, not only that, but encourages others to feel people up? I’ll tell you what kind of people. Orgy masters. Orgy masters do that sort of thing but not mother-in-laws in the midst of a family get together. Well, none but mine, anyway.
And, you know, as weird as this part of the day was, it’s nothing compared to the ukulele story which I will write about next. Right after I go take another shower.
On Wednesday, I watched as an 8 year old girl and her 3 year old brother buried their mom. Marisa Christina Gallegos was 27 years old. Her mom is one of my mom’s oldest friends. She and I were friends as children, I hadn’t seen her since we were about 13. She was one of the sweetest girls I’d ever met.
As of last I heard, they think she died of alcohol poisoning. Her mom (whom both she and her children were living with) was not notified until the police came to her door three hours later. Her friends did not call her mom. Her friends identified her body, so her mom didn’t have the opportunity to see her until days later. Her friends didn’t think, for one second, that her mother and her children had a right to know. It makes my heart break.
During the funeral, Eric looked over at me and said, “We’re chaining Ben to us.” I said something along the lines of, “And he’s not allowed to have friends.”
My dad said, “The streets will take your life. It’s always been that way and always will be.” My mom thanked God that Eric and I had found eachother and that I had “settled down”. There but by the grace of God…
I listened as the priest said things that were meant to give comfort. Things like how she was now in a place to help everyone fulfill their life goals. How no one should be sad because she is in a better place. It sounded patronizing. It doesn’t mean I don’t believe it, it’s just that, were I in her mother’s shoes, I’d smack anyone who told me my daughter was in a better place. She has two children that need her here, now. There is no better place.
I found pictures of her at my 5th birthday party. I made copies and will take them to her mom when we go to visit her next week. It struck me how her daughter looks exactly like her at that age. Same skinny body, rail arms and chicken legs. Everytime I saw her, I couldn’t help but cry. While I may have barely recognized the woman in the casket, the sobbing face of the little girl was very familiar.
I have so much to say about this but I’m not entirely sure how to put it together, so I apologize for this being scattered. I can’t imagine burying a mom so young and I can’t imagine burying your child. When her mom stood to speak, she reminded us all to hold our children a little tighter. I did and I will.
Newport, Rhode Island, 1901. “The Manger. Experimental portrait showing values of white against white, featuring a young woman holding a baby.” 8×10 dry-plate glass negative by Gertrude Käsebier. View Original
Who fed me from her gentle breast
And hushed me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My Mother.
~Anne Taylor
My beautiful son,
I’m watching you cruise across the old recliner to get into something you’re not supposed to and, in the midst of getting up to run and grab my work planner away from you, I’m stopped by your giant smile. You drop the planner and come crawling at me as fast as you can. My sweet, wonderful boy, you’re the reason I get to celebrate today. Thank you so much for being part of my life, part of this family. I love you.
Mama
