Take Me Home, Country Roads, Part Deux

Just got back in town!

This is a re-post from January '09 because when it comes to trips to the in-laws, I'm nothing if not predictable, and if there's ever an excuse to include a pre-40 year old photo of myself, I'll take it:

Sorry for the blog silence. I’ve been holed up in a house w/ 7 kids, 6 adults, one dog and a hermit crab for the past 6 days. I’m kind of glad I couldn’t blog at my in-laws, because I would have come off as a raving lunatic, or at least more of one than usual.

I needed to get back home and get a little perspective before filling you in on my week. See how happy I look in my own kitchen?

Trips to the in-laws always seem to go like this: I work myself into a lather packing for the household. Laundry, pack, schlep, laundry, pack, schlep. When we get there, my first strategy is to hide out in a back bedroom reading books 24-7. This is not to protect myself from them, but to protect them from the raging b-rat I become every time I’m there.

I find myself cringing at everything anyone does. I play a little game in my head called “That’s where Tom got that annoying habit.” I feel rebellious. If they are talking politics, I feel like yelling, “I voted for Obama!” If they extol the virtues of health food, I rip open a bag of chocolate and strap on my feed bag.

Underneath my rolling eyes, moaning and groaning, I think what I’m doing is trying to punish them for not being my family of origin. As if to embrace them fully and their way of doing things will somehow negate my experience of “family.” The thing is, ever since my mom died, twenty years ago, my family hasn’t exactly been all sunshine and roses, so why am I comparing, and judging, and punishing these kind, lovely people who have never been anything but good to me?

But still.

By day 2, I feel the need to flee. Unfortunately, I’m 7 hours from home and have never bothered to plot an escape route. The idyllic country setting begins to feel more like a curse than a blessing. I have no idea how to get to a main road. Perhaps if there were a Target nearby, I could indulge in a little retail therapy to make it through. No dice. Snowfall doesn’t help either.

Low thermostat? Annoying. Boring local newspaper? Ugh. Tennis magazines? No thanks. By day 3, I’m lethargic, as if overtaken by carbon monoxide. Everything is in slow mo. I sleep as late as possible, ignoring the chipper “Well, look who is up!” by other members of the household. I keep my Christmas pj’s on as much as possible.

The kids are having a blast with their cousins, and Tom is loving catching up with his parents and siblings. By day 4 Tom is offering me a one-way plane ticket home and out of his hair. The nerve. I rally. Our anniversary is pretty good. We go to a nice dinner and a movie. That night, I roll over in my twin bed uttering a “Night Ricky,” to his “Night Lucy.” Romantic in an old fashioned kind of way.

Day 5 really picks up. I see the light at the end of the tunnel. I start to socialize. I drink wine. I’m not sure why I didn’t think of this earlier. I ring in the New Year with a smile on my face, even though my night is spent in yet a different house with 10 kids, 6 adults, and I’m on an air mattress mere inches away from a cage containing a dead guinea pig. The people we stayed with were pet sitting for the holidays. Someone had a much worse vacation than I did.

On Day 6 I start to think about whom Jake will marry. Will he bring home a girl so witchy and judgmental that I’ll have to walk on eggshells around her? Will I have to apologize for my mere existence? Will the way I breathe bother her? Will she play the “A-ha!” game inside her head? Will she fail to recognize what a fabulous person I am?

Chastened, I spend my last few hours there being the daughter-in-law I should have been since the beginning. To my in-laws—I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through for the last decade and a half, even though most of it just played out in my mind.

To Tom, I’m glad you come from such a dear family, with kind parents, siblings, and nieces and nephews. I know I’ve said this to many guys in the past, but I think this is the first time I’ve said it to you. And I mean 96% of it: “I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.”

"Night, Lucy." "Night, Ricky."

Just got back from a week in captivity with Tom’s family. They are lovely people, and I do believe I behaved pretty well this time. Semi-psycho, but not all-out psycho.

I think my issue comes down to a concept I read about recently that in-laws just aren’t of your tribe. A different tribe doesn’t mean a bad tribe, just different. My own tribe is wracked with tragedy and riddled with dysfunction, but it’s mine so I more or less “get” it.

On a day to day basis, my vacation problems stem from the fact that I’m not in my own home, thus not able to get anything “done,” and the issue of a fundamental magazine-incompatibility. I first heard this phrase from Marinka and I fell in love with it and her fabulous blog.

In-Law’s Magazine List:

Knit Simple
Prevention
Consumer Reports
New Republic
Cooking Light
Tennis

Anna’s Far Superior and More Interesting Magazine List:

Country Living
Better Homes and Gardens
Vanity Fair
Elle Décor
Southern Living
Family Circle
Guideposts

…and the ultimate guilty pleasures: People and US Weekly.

Yes, yes I brought books to read, but I whizzed through them all. No, I couldn’t drive to the store, because after almost 18 years I still don’t know where the heck I am out in the country and how to escape if necessary.

By the end of vacation I was so desperate I was reading the labels on vitamin bottles.

I am not trying to be judge-y here; my own sister and I are magazine incompatible. Hers: Yoga Journal, Self, Health. Ewwww.

But she and I usually manage to stay occupied discussing our differing views of the same childhood incidents or stuffing our faces with jumbo marshmallows straight out of the bag.

Entertainment-wise, we did better than in the magazine department on this trip.

My mother in law has a dvd collection of “I Love Lucy.” We loved introducing the kids to the show.

Reactions:

Molly: “Lucy needs to tell Ricky to go make his own breakfast.”

Jake: “Lucy and her friend always make things worse by lying about stuff.”


And, in a case of "life imitating Lucy," Tom and I were once again assigned the room with twin beds in it.

I was PMS-ing HARD so Tom’s little bed could have been in Alaska for all I cared. The distance probably kept him safe from any vacation-induced stabbing.

In all, it was a very good trip, yet I’m glad to be home. And waiting for me when I got here? 3 crisp new magazines. Aaah.

Keeping Psycho Anna at Bay

Well, my dear sweet in-laws left a few minutes ago after a nice Easter weekend. The weather was good, the kids had a wonderful time with their grandparents, we ate great meals, and my in-laws were their kind and helpful selves. My FIL even made a serious dent in the To-Do list on the fridge, and my mother in law sewed on buttons for me!

I am pleased to tell you that Psycho Daughter-in-law Anna stayed away for the most part.

There were several examples of this such as my blood not starting to boil and my not wanting to poke out my frontal lobe with an ice pick during any number of conversations about coffee, wine, health food, golf, tennis, and how to pronounce the word "Pulaski."

This morning presented the most striking evidence that Psycho Daughter-in-law Anna was not in the building.

MORNING CONVERSATION DURING OUR LAST VISIT:

In-laws Said: "Well, Good-morning, Anna!"

Anna Heard: "Thanks for finally dragging your lazy butt out of bed and gracing us with your presence, Princess! Do you really think it's fair to sleep all day while our beloved son cooks, cleans, tends to the children AND earns a living supporting you and all of your profligate habits? All of our lives we hoped our baby would find someone with our New England Work Ethic and he has to go and find a southerner, and a protestant, who doesn't exercise, can't tell the difference between a flavanoid and a free radical and has about as much gumption and self-control as that disgusting Bill Clinton!"

MORNING CONVERSATION TODAY:

In-laws Said: "Well, Good-morning, Anna!"

Anna Heard: "Well, Good-morning, Anna!"

Whew. Now can I please take my lazy butt and go back to bed?

Country Roads, Take Me Home

Sorry for the blog silence. I’ve been holed up in a house w/ 7 kids, 6 adults, one dog and a hermit crab for the past 6 days. I’m kind of glad I couldn’t blog at my in-laws, because I would have come off as a raving lunatic, or at least more of one than usual. I needed to get back home and get a little perspective before filling you in on my week. See how happy I look in my own kitchen?

Trips to the in-laws always seem to go like this: I work myself into a lather packing for the household. Laundry, pack, schlep, laundry, pack, schlep. When we get there, my first strategy is to hide out in a back bedroom reading books 24-7. This is not to protect myself from them, but to protect them from the raging b-rat I become every time I’m there.

I find myself cringing at everything anyone does. I play a little game in my head called “That’s where Tom got that annoying habit.” I feel rebellious. If they are talking politics, I feel like yelling, “I voted for Obama!” If they extol the virtues of health food, I rip open a bag of chocolate and strap on my feed bag.

Underneath my rolling eyes, moaning and groaning, I think what I’m doing is trying to punish them for not being my family of origin. As if to embrace them fully and their way of doing things will somehow negate my experience of “family.”

The thing is, ever since my mom died, twenty years ago, my family hasn’t exactly been all sunshine and roses, so why am I comparing, and judging, and punishing these kind, lovely people who have never been anything but good to me? But still.

By day 2, I feel the need to flee. Unfortunately, I’m 7 hours from home and have never bothered to plot an escape route. The idyllic country setting begins to feel more like a curse than a blessing. I have no idea how to get to a main road. Perhaps if there were a Target nearby, I could indulge in a little retail therapy to make it through. No dice. Snowfall doesn’t help either. Low thermostat? Annoying. Boring local newspaper? Ugh. Tennis magazines? No thanks.

By day 3, I’m lethargic, as if overtaken by carbon monoxide. Everything is in slow mo. I sleep as late as possible, ignoring the chipper “Well, look who is up!” by other members of the household. I keep my Christmas pj’s on as much as possible. The kids are having a blast with their cousins, and Tom is loving catching up with his parents and siblings.

By day 4 Tom is offering me a one-way plane ticket home and out of his hair. The nerve. I rally. Our anniversary is pretty good. We go to a nice dinner and a movie. That night, I roll over in my twin bed uttering a “Night Ricky,” to his “Night Lucy.” Romantic in an old fashioned kind of way.

Day 5 really picks up. I see the light at the end of the tunnel. I start to socialize. I drink wine. I’m not sure why I didn’t think of this earlier. I ring in the New Year with a smile on my face, even though my night is spent in yet a different house with 10 kids, 6 adults, and I’m on an air mattress mere inches away from a cage containing a dead guinea pig. The people we stayed with were pet sitting for the holidays. Someone had a much worse vacation than I did.

On Day 6 I start to think about whom Jake will marry. Will he bring home a girl so witchy and judgmental that I’ll have to walk on eggshells around her? Will I have to apologize for my mere existence? Will the way I breathe bother her? Will she play the “A-ha!” game inside her head? Will she fail to recognize what a fabulous person I am?

Chastened, I spend my last few hours there being the daughter-in-law I should have been since the beginning. To my in-laws—I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through for the last decade and a half, even though most of it just played out in my mind.

To Tom, I’m glad you come from such a dear family, with kind parents, siblings, and nieces and nephews. I know I’ve said this to many guys in the past, but I think this is the first time I’ve said it to you. And I mean 96% of it: “I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.”