Perhaps it's because my parents are both dead.  My father died at 74, about six years ago.  My mother died at less than 70 about three years ago.  I'm conscious of the sudden reality of having dead parents.  Hence, spending time with my life partner's parents is important to me.  In their 80s, with more vigour than either of us demonstrate much of the time, I value their being in our home, and part of our lives, at least occasionally.

Not that my life partner doesn't love his parents.  Heck, he loves his parents with less confusion, angst or mixed feelings than anyone I've ever met.   He genuinely enjoys them, and they him.  And the affection between and among them is palpable, even listening to just his end of the conversation when they're talking by phone.  I swear, on occasion, that he is the only person I've ever met who genuinely believes he had a happy childhood.  Go figure.

So, for the first time more than two years (we think), the 'in-laws' are visiting.  We keep getting better at their being with us: the food issues are the most significant hurdle, so we've learned to stop at a supermarket on our way back home from picking them up at the airport.  That eases most of their stress: I suppose than when one lives to be more than 80, one is entitled to not be flexible about everything! 

I watch them when they are here.  I watch how my mother-in-law has the same "default setting" as her son: to have a good time.   My father-in-law has the same "I cannot be rushed" temperment that his son has.  I sometimes worry that his obstinacy will get set so deep that it becomes a wall that infuriates me, but then I figure -- as I watch this couple who have been married almost fifty years -- if it's my biggest fear, I've got it lucky indeed.

I wonder, on occasion, how they see me.  They know their son is happy with me, and for that, they are grateful to me.  But I'm unlike their other children's spouses.  It may be because I'm not mid-Western American.  It may be because I was more than 40 by the time I met them.  But I can't call them any variation on "mom" and "dad" as their other children's spouses do; it just sticks in my throat: I had a mom and dad, and they're dead.  Period.  They understand that, and they've given me permission to use their first names, but I think it rankles some, anyway.

I think they find me a little exotic.  They have me read the French labels on packaged foods, just to hear the "correct accent".  I sometimes have to surpress a giggle, knowing how far from "correct" my accent would be to the ear of a Parisian!  They marvel at my curly hair, and at my choice to have hard-wood floors unadorned by rugs or carpets, and windows covered with venetian blinds, unadorned with sheers, drapes and valences.  But I think they see me with a mix of affection, admiration, and disbelief.  Not a bad combo, I suppose.

I see them as funny, kind and more engaged in the world than most people significantly younger than them often are.  I see them willing to go new places, and to accept new family members into the fold.  I see them as coming from a small community, but not having small minds.  I have enormous affection for them, and I honour them.   And I'm thrilled that they're here.

***

On making room at the table, we've decided we'll use smaller chairs, and do just that: we'll make room.   Period.  I'm looking forward to this Thanksgiving!

Next entry

Archives