Relocation Sale: Everything Must Go!

What with the new job, I thought that it might be prudent to relocate to a new home (think "Witness Protection Program").

The Devil Made Me . . .

Before I make my lists, I want to thank everyone for your kind comments on my last post. Your well wishes, personal stories, and wisdom have been like fortunes from a crisp cookie--I have unrolled them and reveled in them and stuffed them into a secret compartment in my mental pocketbook to remind me, in the future, about what's important. I feel so fortunate that you were willing to share your own experiences regarding family . . . and grateful, too.

"Friends are relatives you make for yourself."
-Eustache Deschamps

Time for a couple of lists.

My list of compulsions: buying pocketbooks, watching Top Chef, reading, cleaning sinks (but not tubs), heavy eye make-up (used to love lipstick), exercise, googling, getting rid of things we've outgrown or no longer use, skimming the news and vital statistics and obituaries every morning while I drink coffee (black), turning off the air conditioning at night (it might catch on fire, so we can all just sweat in our sleep, thankyouverymuch), watching/manhandling/clutching my wee boys, perfecting salsa (still not there), eating a fresh jalapeno pepper and home fried potatoes every day for lunch, making soups, People's Court, not touching or stepping on anything sticky, saving money, redeeming coupons, researching via Wikipedia, listening to new songs from itunes (Eve--Tambourine) over and over and over again . . .

Things I wish I was compulsive about: writing, sending thank-you notes (there are about seven in a pile in the office, collecting a furry coating of dust), dusting, kissing, hand-washing my intimate apparel (snort), calorie counting, baking, shaving my legs, washing my face before bed, cleaning windows, walking the dogs, investments, stargazing, eating at home, trying new foods (like peeky toe crab?), and traveling.

Getting Rid of My Dirty Laundry

I'm at a funny place right, now, an edge of the crowd kind of place. I keep sliding my flip flopped foot into a forest of unfamiliar legs, trying to establish a toehold, but I'm feeling edged out, struggling, fumbling . . . and a bit mad.

I have been married to a lovely fellow for 12 years. Season to season, the temperature of our relationship warms and cools, but overall, we have created a climate of family. We are real and passionate and flawed. We do our best, and when we make mistakes, we acknowledge them, apologize, and generally, attempt to change our ways. There are lessons in everything, even the painful circumstances. We have lived about five hours away from our extended families since the genesis of our relationship, though we are both from the same town, our parents living only about twenty miles from one another. Not an insurmountable distance in this day and age, I feel. Not an insurmountable distance with cell phones and the internet. Herein lies the breakdown--

One of my in-laws is a blogger who paints her life with pastel hued, satin color. She writes posts which allude to the lovely attention that her mother, my children's grandmother, gives her and her family, and this is where my heart starts to ache: the disparity between the way my children (2 boys) are treated and the way the other grandchildren (2 girls) are treated is like the difference between a Yugo and a Mercedes.

The other grandchildren have been invited to grandma's house for sleepovers. My children were self-invited (via my husband and myself) to grandma's house for the FIRST TIME EVER last Summer (and they have yet to be invited back). The other grandchildren are apparently the recipients of continuous quality time. I would say that without a doubt, my mother-in-law doesn't even know the ages of my children, their favorite toys, the foods that make them gag, the sports that make their hearts race, etc.

Right now, my boys are four and five--they see this woman's picture, and while my eldest son recognizes her, the little one squints and says, "A lady?" They do not know this woman because she is simply a once a year visit (if that), in which she stands at the edge of the yard, watching the children swing and musing, "This is the life. This is what life is all about . . . my grandchildren. It doesn't get any better than this."

Hmmpfff.

Mac, in the vein of curious children trying to create a mental spreadsheet of relationships, asks about who my parents are, who his dad's parents are, and once established, he provides ongoing commentary:

"Your mom and dad are coming to see us next week, Mom," he sing songs before a visit.
"Your dad gave you a kiss," he delights after my dad embraces me in greeting.
"Why doesn't your mom come to see you, dad?" he questions, "Is she sick, or is her car broke?'

I shouldn't be surprised. For the first seven years of my marriage, I was able to tell surprised friends that my parents had never met my mother-in-law; she did not express any interest in ever meeting them. I was able to tell people that when I expressed upset that my mother-in-law never acknowledged our marriage with so much as a card, she thrust a check into my husband's hand, called him "money hungry," and snapped that she had had to second mortgage her home to give us that gift. I was able to tell people that, because of an argument between my husband and his mother (from which they had apparently "made up"), he was blacklisted from her wedding. I was able to tell people that she has NEVER invited us to a family event, not a catered birthday celebration, not a barbecue, not even for dinner. If we call and say that we will be in the area, doors are apparently open, but the sentiment is as casual as if we were a crew of Fuller Brush salesmen and the carpets needed sweeping. My mother-in-law calls about four times a year, and I guess we should be grateful for that. She says she's been busy. She references crisises and slumps, but point blank refuses to provide details, leaving my husband to have to research with other family members to find out whether or not she is sick (seems like everyone was told what was going on except us). I wonder how often she calls her other grandchildren? From the way it's described at the other blog, grandma doesn't even need to call. She's too busy spending REAL TIME with them. A pillar of love and support and encouragement, that one is.

But let me make this clear: what makes me angry is not entirely the lack of effort. It's the hypocritical stance ("family is my everything," she gushes). It's the excuses ("I couldn't get in touch because I've been working twenty hour workdays."). But more than anything, it's the differentiation of treatment.

I am tired of going through the motions and pretending. We have tried to do our part, but one sided phone calls, one sided invitations, and one sided interest have grown very old. My husband has discussed our feelings with his mother--

If you aren't interested, don't call or don't visit, but don't keep telling everyone how your family is everything. Don't make excuses that obviously don't apply to other facets of your life, he says.

The phone works both ways, she retorts, all puffed up with a lion's mane worth of indignation.

Yeah, but I don't have two grandsons living with you, he finishes, I would think that you would want to call and find out how they are doing. I guess I'm wrong . . .

How do you make someone care? I am ready to acknowledge the situation for what it is, which means that I'm not going to continue to pretend that her reality is fact. To be a good grandmother, at the very minimum, you must show interest. You must care about all of your grandchildren in some way, not just a select few. Grandchildren are not assorted chocolates; you do not get to select favorites by preference. I spend a lot of time saying that I am a writer, but the simple truth is, to be a writer, you must write. To get credits on your resume, you must accomplish something. To keep most jobs, you have to show up. To be a good grandmother, you must, in some fashion, mother. It's not about the number of photographs on your office desk or the way you muse that "grandchildren are what it's all about."

I had one grandmother that lived 2 hours away and another that lived in Ireland, and I felt that I was of equal value to each. Ireland Granny wrote me weekly letters and States Granny came to visit at least twice a month. I am sad that my boys have been shortchanged, but I am grateful that will be learning this lesson early--that there is more to life than rich bullshit--that action counts for a lot. My boys have my mother, a beautiful sock-knitting granny who telephones them daily and clamors for opportunities to drive down to our house to visit or to have them at her house for a few weeks in the summer. They have many "aunts" in the form of my girlfriends, who know enough about my boys that they actually have favorite anecdotes ("Cap'n Baby" and "Pirate Mac"). "Cousins" come to stay and evenings are filled, watching The Muppet Show and eating ice cream. They even have a surrogate grandmother from their school--she sponsors them for Jump Rope for Heart and applauds at their award ceremonies and invites them to her house almost daily in the summer to spend time in her pool.

This is about hurt feelings. This is about being treated like a "non-entity." This is about feeling somewhat "not good enough" and "unworthy." It's about wondering why our wonderful little guys don't count, can be as easily disregarded as colorful wrapping paper after a birthday party.

There are people in the world who don't have much to offer, but they are, at least, honest about that, and hopefully, fair. I have great respect for people who admit, "It's my turn, now. I don't owe you anything," but I have a hard time abiding by different treatment for different people. especially children. It's one thing to say, "That's just who she is" but it's another to say, "That's just who she is with our boys."

My dirty laundry already feels fresh and cleaner. A multitude of blessings and the fragility of life, indeed.

With father's day tomorrow, we remember how important family (whether biological or created from scratch) truly is, and we take action--today, tomorrow, every day--to make sure that the ones that we love feel valued. That is what I wish for you, as well as for my own family.