David’s mother, Helen, never liked me. When we were all together—and the Waldos gathered often—she either ignored my contributions to conversations or she emitted judgmental tongue clicks and grunts. She never looked at me and she never allowed even the shortest dialogue about anything meaningful. This wasn’t a subtle loathing; it was palpable and meant to injure. David’s sister said the disapproval was because I’d married the favorite child, and that Helen wouldn’t have liked anyone he married—although it didn’t seem like she treated her other daughter-in-law, Betty, any better. Betty, however, was gifted when it came to rising above, while I sometimes became so hurt and furious that my hands would tremble. Although, realistically speaking, we spent years living in other countries and any concern over my relationship with Helen fell away when we flew away.
Also, her displeasure with me was puzzling. I’m aware that I’m sometimes intense when intensity isn’t called for. And when things don’t go my way, I tend to get snippy—well, who doesn’t? But I have redeeming qualities. I made her son happy. I was an exceptional mother to her grandsons. I’m intuitive, responsible, loyal, and I have a sense of humor. See? All good traits.
As to her inclinations, Helen was difficult to decipher. She held to antiquated directives, such as boys and men should remove their hats when they enter a room, and it’s rude to chew gum in public. One rule that, when broken, got her riled was the “he and I” rule. She would noticeably cringe when someone said, “me and him,” or a variation thereof. While it is atrocious grammar, for some, pronouns can be tricky—however, she would let this small error form her everlasting opinion. All these standards seemed prim and rigid, which was confounding considering the pleasure she took in telling dirty jokes.
During the few years we lived in Sugar Land, Helen began to have problems coping. There were illnesses and traffic accidents until, at one point, on the phone, she told David that shopping and bringing the groceries in had so exhausted her that she was unable to go back outside and close the car door. So, after much familial discussion, it was decided that she should go into a three-step nursing home—moderate care, full care, and hospice.
Helen had smoked all her life, so it wasn’t unexpected that age came at her with unrelenting cruelty. A toe infection, caused by a pedicure, led to an amputation, which didn’t heal; and when the toe wound became gangrenous, her foot was taken, and that also didn’t heal; then off came all below her knee. And not long after, the whole leg was gone.
And throughout the operations and hospitalizations, her care fell to the daughters-in-law. Where were her sons? Nowhere to be found.
As I lived an hour away, Betty, was the one on the front lines. But I did my share, too. I drove the distance to take Helen to doctor appointments, physical therapy, and on her errands. Once, after Christmas, she had me drive her to every store in the area so she could exchange or get money back on every Christmas present Betty had given her. This woman who had treated me like a mangy stray throughout most of my adult life, showed no appreciation, and, in fact, seemed to view my services as her right.
On one horrendously long day I took her to a medical appointment and, because she was fading in and out of consciousness, the doctor instructed me to take her to the emergency room, which I did. When it looked like it was going to be a long wait in the ER, she had me roll her outside so she could smoke. I returned inside to listen for her name to be called, while outside she dropped her cigarette and, fragile and woozy as she was, bent over to pick it up, and in doing so, toppled from her wheelchair and on to the cold hard concrete, scratching her face and badly bruising her arm and shoulder. The fall got the ER’s attention and she was taken in immediately, where they ran tests, gave her five units of blood, and admitted her. I stayed with her throughout, but not with love in my heart. I did it begrudgingly, constantly checking the time, and wishing to be at home adhering to my usual schedule.
And again—where were her sons?
I, too, have sons.
Helen’s groundless meanness. My lack of compassion. The sons staying away. Altogether, an ugly picture.
Having experienced such a thorny relationship with my husband’s mother, I have vowed to be the perfect mother-in-law. I won’t order my sons’ wives around or give them unwanted advice. I’ll never judge. I’ll be always gracious, never taking their kindnesses for granted. I won’t intrude into their marriages. I’ll support them in every way and make certain they know that I’m proud of them. I’ll never, ever be mean spirited toward them or make them think they aren’t good enough. All these intentions I’ve created so that if I fall victim to infirmity as Helen did, my sons’ wives will view me with sympathy and consideration rather than as an imposition and a duty. So, as I said, in the mother-in-law arena I aim for perfection, giving no offense and being nothing but docile and benign.
“How’s that working out for you, Jen?” you ask.
“How do you think?” is my response.
Brunch at True Food
Is this not the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen?
