I don't know when or where mother-in-laws jokes started. I wonder if every culture has them, or it just one of those American things. Regardless of their origin, I know that I definitely participated in them for the first 7 or 8 years of my marriage. I can safely say that when Pete proposed to me neither Pat, my MIL, or myself got what we had hoped for in a daughter/mother-in-law. I was this giant 6 foot non-southern, non-Baptist, shopping hating, non-make-up wearing Democratic oddity to her. She was a very southern, small town woman with giant fake red hair, matching lip stick and an obsession with the mall. There was much disappointment on both sides.
Neither of us worked too hard on making the situation better. She questioned Pete's choice in proposing to a woman who would (get ready, this is good!) "Burn in hell eternally" for being raised Catholic. Looking back I wasn't that great either. I completely excluded her from the planning of our wedding. Basically she was just an invited guest. I also announced early in our engagement that I had no intention of EVER spending Christmas with her, as I love my own family tradition of going to the Bahamas. Those are two pretty tough things with Pete being an only child.
We lived in a mutually unhappy state of veiled dislike for the next 8 years. Along the way we really missed some great opportunities. When my first child, Sarah, was born, Pat and I clashed for her entire first visit. I was hormonal, exhausted and a complete control freak. Although she had successfully raised Pete, she obviously knew NOTHING about children. Instead of letting her enjoy her first grandchild, I spent four days complaining about how she did everything wrong. She spent three days dragging 2-week-old Sarah and I to the mall. Of course things came to a terrible clash and she left with only an hour's notice, 5 days before she was scheduled to. It was a disaster.
But a bigger disaster was looming, one that would finally break my heart enough to make me see Pat for who she is. Three years ago we got a call that my father-in-law had died suddenly from a heart attack. Pat had held him while he died in their home. We immediately got to the airport and flew to Tennessee. In the course of the next few days, I watched Pat bury Johnny with astounding grace, strength and faith. But you see she had done this before, actually twice before. Pat had buried Pete's father when Pete was 5, his first step father when Pete was in college, and now she was burying his second step-father. As I watched her during those sad days, my heart literally broke for her. How can someone bury three husbands before their 60th birthday? How can someone get up in the morning, put one foot in front of the other and sing praises to God after all that? My eyes were finally opened to see beyond the hair and makeup and shopping sprees, I finally saw a women who deserved (and really wanted) my respect and love.
Pat spent a lot of time with us that summer and fall. During that time, both of our hearts softened, healed and completely changed toward one another. She came when Emily was born and we had a great visit. I begged her to stay for a third week. Yes, she still wanted to go shopping, and we did. I have learned to shrug my shoulders and say thank you – most of her shopping these days is focused on dressing the girls. She learned to shrug her shoulders and feed the girls tofu and only organic dairy products. Although I do it differently than she did with Pete, she never misses a chance to tell me that I am a good mom. I really appreciate that.
Having just come home from visiting Pat last week, I am completely in awe of how things have changed over the years for us. It is nothing short of a miracle! I look forward to our visits together, and I am sad when they end. When we are together, we talk until midnight or until we just have to go to sleep. After 11 years, I can finally say that we are truly friends now and I am so grateful for it.
