Relief In A Pill

I am turning into my mother-in-law.

That is the horrifying revelation I had this past week when my doctor decided to prescribe water pills for me to take. My long-time readers know that I have endometriosis. And a bad case of it at that. That means birth control pills for the long haul.

This summer, my doctor switched me to a different formulation. For the first time in five years, this one actually works. It has been wonderful. Except for one lousy side effect. Bloating. I've never been able to sympathize with women who have complained about bloating or retaining water. Damn, that sucks has been my standard reply. The past three months, however, have been a lesson to me.

This new medication? The first month? Made me gain four pounds in two days. The puffy feeling went away after about a week. But now? It isn't going away. If I wear socks, my ankles come out at the end of the day looking like I am eight months pregnant. I called my doctor's office to tell them thanks, but no thanks. It sounds vain and shallow to admit, but I'd rather go back to my non-effective pill than gain pound after pound of water every month.

Instead, my doctor is having me try a water pill. The only person I ever knew who took one was my MIL. That was her post-partum diet. After having gained 90lb with her first pregnancy, her post-partum weight loss regimen consisted of cigarettes and water pills. Until after three months she couldn't figure out why she wasn't losing any weight. Turns out she was three months preggers with Hubbie. Nice.

So, somewhat following in my MIL's footsteps, tomorrow begins my new course of these lovely peach-colored horse pills. And seriously, I cannot fucking wait to take them. I am tired of feeling like a marshmallow. I don't want to see an indentation in my leg from my socks, the sofa or my finger. I did that with my first pregnancy, and I while I don't have the t-shirt I have most certainly been there, done that.

Tomorrow, I look forward to an extremely satisfying day of running back and forth to the toilet. Bring. It. On.

Gifts with Ulterior Motives

When my ILs moved out of their house, Hubbie and I spent months helping them sort through rooms full of things they had collected over the years.

While sorting old paperwork, his mother and I came across engineering plans from his grandfather's company. Handwritten plans that he had drawn himself.

Hubbie's mom chucked them in the trash.

Now, I know that when you go into purge mode, it is easier to get rid of things. It is impossible to keep everything. For me, however, this represented family history. I envision them framed in a study or home office. I took the tube out of the trash and asked to keep them. I don't know that my MIL was all that thrilled, but this was just as much my husband's legacy as hers. I put them to the side and brought them home.

That was nearly eight years ago. These plans have traveled in their original 1954 mailing tube across two continents, three states and three cities. Every time the tube surfaces, a sharp pang of guilt hits me. We've not really had the wall space to show them off, but I hate that I have not accomplished my goal.

Yesterday, I bit the bullet. I went out and bought a frame. I matted it myself. There are still touch-ups that need to be done, but it is framed. I am giving it to Hubbie for Christmas.

I am proud of the results. The mirrored, silver matting compliments the pencil strokes, and it feels nice to have a piece of my husband's family history displayed in our home.

There are enough of these plans for me to give one to each of the children when they get older.

My husband is thrilled. He loves how it looks and can't wait to hang it. I feel quite emotional about it. I got kind of teary-eyed when I flipped the frame over to see the results. Living here in the States, my kids do not have the opportunity to explore their Swedish roots in the way I would like. I want both families represented in our house, and I feel this is a good start.

Countering this, I recognize there is a teeny part of me that wants the approval of his family. I want to send them a picture to show how I am honoring my MIL's family. I want them to be proud. I want them to like it. I want them to acknowledge me. To recognize my efforts.

Past experience has taught me what a futile exercise that would be. That makes me sad. Sad how unresponsive they are. Sad how I never seem to learn my lesson.

MIL Monday: It's An Antique!!

While visiting the ILs, Hubbie and I had the difficult task of cleaning out some of our boxes in their storage room. It was emotional going through remnants of our life in Sweden, sifting through the early years of our relationship.

Up on a shelf in this same storage room was a child's table, two matching chairs and a bench. I asked Hubbie about it, but he'd never seen it before. It was obviously old and looked quite disused. A dusty sage green with a nice curve to the legs, it was exactly the right size for LittleBird and LittleMan.

Upstairs that night I spoke with my MIL about it. She was excited that I had noticed it, and she told me it was very old. It had been her father's table, she explained. Which made it over one hundred years old. She proudly told me that it had been her table to play on when she was a little girl.

At two different points in the conversation I agreed with her how adorable the table was, and how it was the perfect size for the kids to use right now.

She never offered to let them use it.

My mom and I had quite the discussion about this once I got home. I could understand if my MIL felt this was such a special antique that no one was going to use it. If so, take care of it. Clean it up. Polish it. Display it or donate it to a children's history museum.

I also could have asked her point-blank if my children could use it. However, I felt I opened the door to give her the opportunity to offer it's use to her grandchildren without blatantly putting her on the spot. She either didn't get it, or did get it and I got her message.

So there it sits, mouldering away in their storage room. My children will more than likely be too big to use it the next time they are there.

What the hell is she waiting for?

MIL Monday: Don't Fucking Smoke Next to My Kid

One of the main stressors of our trip to Sweden is the fact that my mother-in-law smokes. A lot.

She smokes "outside" on the balcony. Which is smoker-speak for standing in the kitchen with her lit cigarette outside the door. Or, to actually stand on the balcony with the door open.

Needless to say, their entire house reeks of smoke.

In the back of the apartment in the children's bedroom with the door completely shut, I could smell when she lit a cigarette.

It was disgusting.

What made me most upset were the physical indicators. LittleBird had black boogers for the two weeks we were there. All from second-hand smoke.

I had a headache every night.

The incident that made me the most angry was at the zoo. We had lunch in a cafe area with picnic tables. We were still eating, MIL was finished. She lit a cigarette at the table.

At the fucking table. Right next to LittleBird.

As I ate my lunch, the smoke blew directly in my face. Between puffs, her solution of keeping the cigarette "away" from the table was to hold it behind LittleBird's back.

I was in such a terrible position. I wanted to asked her to leave the table for so many reasons, but I knew that if I did our entire trip would be blown. That she would pout and ignore us and make life a living hell.

I am very ashamed to say that I said nothing. She finished her cigarette, all the while surrounding us with her vile smoke as I did and said nothing. I placed her "fragile" feelings above the health of my family. I justified it a million different ways, and it is not a decision I am proud of.

I caved for the peace of the family.

When a grandmother loves her cigarettes more than her grandchildren, it makes me want to scream. Kill yourself with your cancer sticks, but don't fucking smoke next to my kid.

MIL Monday: Making Plans

We will be traveling to visit my in-laws soon. We haven't been back in nearly two years, and we have a ton of people to see in a short period of time.

Hubbie and I talked about it and thought that we should do an open-house type of deal. Have a 3-4 hour period where all our friends and family can come by on a very informal basis. The kids can play, the adults can chat and a good time can be had by all with lots of flexibility.

We talk with the ILs once a week. Since we just came up with the idea last night, we ran it by them this morning while we talked.

MIL's first response? So this is how you tell us?

WTF? Are you kidding me? By doing this, we free up much more time for you to see your grandkids. You live in a condo that has a large public courtyard with a playset, a space for grilling and benches for everyone to hang out on. How is this putting you out in any way?

And, we talk to you once a week. How the hell else are we supposed to tell you? Sky-writing? Have a genie pop up in your bedroom? Write it on your bridge scorepad? Jesus lady.

Her next response? So what are you going to do if it rains?

Hubbie is so. pissed. off. We are going to do this whether she approves or not. If she won't let us do it at their place, we will find somewhere else. How can anyone be that selfish?

MIL Monday: The Sandwich Nazi

I have to say that my FIL is a saint. He cooks, cleans, does more than his fair of the chores. When he visits, once he gets in the swing of things he can always be counted on to pitch in.

When he and MIL visited shortly after LittleBird was born, he made the afternoon snack for himself and MIL every afternoon. Kind of like having afternoon tea, FIL would make coffee for MIL and fix sandwiches for the two of them.

One unforgettable afternoon, I was sitting on the sofa with LittleBird after having nursed her. FIL made sandwiches in the kitchen for the two of them. We were running low on sandwich meat, we had a little bit of ham and a little bit of either turkey or salami, I can't remember which.

MIL was sitting on the couch and FIL brough her the prerequisite cup of coffee. He went back to the kitchen, brought her sandwich on a plate, and laid it on the table in front of her.

She looked at it. She looked at him. And sneered I said I wanted the ham.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I couldn't believe my ears.

I couldn't look at her. Thank god I had LittleBird snuggled on my chest because I needed something else to focus on.

FIL? He picked up her plate. He went back to the kitchen. He brought her the sandwich he had made for himself, and ate the one that he had made for her.

The upshot of this whole scenario? I couldn't wait for Hubbie to get home to tell him. When I relayed the story, I told him how happy I was. Because if this is how his mom treats his dad, then this was how Hubbie was raised to expect a wife to treat him. And that I could now expect him to fix me snacks and I could yell critiques at him from the sofa.

He told me to go fuck myself.

This was nearly four years ago. He and I still re-enact "THE SANDWICH" scenario. Sometimes he pulls it, sometimes I do. Either way we get a great laugh out of it.

God Bless The Brazilians

When I had my surgery in Sweden, we lived a five minute drive from the hospital. What should have been a 20 minute out-patient procedure turned into a three hour long major overhaul of my abdomen.

I was swollen. I was in a lot of pain.

Hubbie went to work, and I recovered at home. I had three different incisions in my stomach. From the outside it wasn't too gruesome. Internally, I had been scraped and cauterized. It was hard for me to move.

My MIL, who was already retired by this time, lived a five minute drive down the same street we lived on. She never came to see me. She never called to check on me.

I don't know what she had going on. All I knew was that I was laid up in bed or stretched out on the couch. And I was starving. It hurt too much to stand in the kitchen and cook. I would try and fix a sandwich or two, but I was hobbling around like a 90-year old woman.

Enter my next door neighbor. She was Brazilian. Married to a Swedish guy. She was about 10 years older than I was. A lovely woman with lots of issues. We would talk in our version of Swedish. Hers heavily accented with Portuguese, mine with English. She was a lovely person with a very sad life.

When she realized what was going on, she brought me food. Lots of it.

She asked me to leave our upper door unlocked. And from beneath my blankets and a haze of pain I could hear her at different times on different days come into my kitchen and leave large pots of various Brazilian soups and dishes on my counters.

Hubbie and I would not have eaten if not for her.

God only knows what were in some of the dishes. I believe one was ox-tail-black-bean-something-or-other. But it was delicious. It was nutritious. And I was so, so thankful.

I know that my MIL is not the benchmark for hospitality in Sweden. I try not to let memories like this get to me, but I still hate her for it. She could stand to learn a lesson or two from my old neighbor.

I hope my neighbor is still living in her flat when we visit this autumn. I would like to give her a big hug and tell her how much I miss her.

Lining Up Those Ducks

We have secured tickets to Sweden for the autumn. It has been a long and sordid story, but we were able to book four tickets to Stockholm.

Now to get myself geared up to deal with MIL, plus the other myriad issues I may (or may not) have.

Yesterday, my first preemptive strike strategy took effect.

One of LittleMan's nicknames is Maverick. It rhymes with his real name, and I am using this to highlight my point without disclosing any private family info.

My MIL has some kind of linguistic defect. Or hearing defect. Or she might just be a bitch. Regardless of what her issue is, she refuses to cannot pronounce LittleMan's name properly.

So, rather than call him Maverick, she calls him Maverique. As in trying to make it sound French. She doesn't speak French. She boycotted French wines when the nuclear testing thing was going down. However, despite having been corrected several times she continues to call him Maverique.

It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Since adults will often not let other adults correct them but can be shamed by small children, yesterday began with the implementation of Phase I of Mission Maverick.

The conversation went as follows:

Me: Hey LittleBird. You know Maverick's name is Maverick.

LittleBird: Yeah!

Me: We don't say Maverique do we?

LittleBird gives me a weird look like Why in the hell would we call him Maverique?

Me: If someone called him Maverique, what would you say?

LittleBird, with all the attitude an indignant three-year old can muster: His name is MAVERICK, not MaverIQUE!!

That's my girl.

MIL Monday: The Wedding Dance

Since my inspector crapped out on me today, I have a MIL Monday for you.

Inspired by my friend The Baroness, of course.

When Hubbie and I got married, there were several non-negotiables. For both of us. He had his list. I had mine.

For the reception, the top of my list? The Chicken Dance.

For every wedding my family throws, the Chicken Dance is performed. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Hubbie was totally on board. He knows how crazy my family gets at public functions. He was all for it.

When MIL heard that we planned to the do the Chicken Dance, she laughed. She shook her head. She thought we were kidding.

Then she shook her head again.

And told us she wouldn't do it.

I told her (with a smile and a laugh) that it was family tradition and that it would be played.

The day came. The vows taken. The food served. The music played.

My cousins grabbed the microphone, handed out fake chicken noses in honor of my uncle and family members not able to attend and announced the beginning of the Chicken Dance.

We had a gigantic circle. Huge. All the Swedes, Americans, Dutch, Kenyans, Canadians--we had people from many countries at our wedding. Every able-bodied person laughed and thought it was hilarious. Everyone joined in to participate.

MIL sat on the side.

Through the whole thing she sat at her table and refused to join in the revelry.

I am sure her actions spoke loudly. She chose to not participate. I do not know what the guests thought, but it was all on her.

All that is in the past and would stay in the past, except for our NATUI Afternoon Fun with Music sessions.

I have been playing lots of my old mix CDs for the kids in the afternoon to keep them entertained. I found the CDs we played at the wedding. Guess what was on it?

That's right.

I figured, if LittleBird can learn the Hokey Pokey, she can for damn sure learn the Chicken Dance.

Here is the evidence.




When MIL saw the video, she commented on how adorable it was. How great the Chicken Dance was.

Fuck you lady. You are a liar and a poser. And not in a good way.

MIL Monday: Naked TMI

D over at Poetic License noted I had not posted a MIL Monday lately when we met for coffee yesterday, so this one is for you babe.

Pre-pregnancy, I was a naked sleeper. I wasn't in my younger days, but after Hubbie and I started living together, as I am sure you can understand this became fairly standard.

That changed with the pregnancies and nursing, but it is not like the idea of naked sleeping is foreign to me.

However. However.

As juvenile as this sounds, I do not want to know if other people sleep naked. Well, let me clarify. My friends and close family? Fine. My MIL? Not so much.

When she visited us for those interminable three weeks in the High Sierras, she and FIL stayed in our guest room. They used the robes we provided them.

But. But.

One fateful day I followed FIL and Hubbie into the guest room. MIL was still in bed. Under the covers. Thankfully.

It was obvious that she was naked under the sheets.

Please god, I hope not nekkid, but naked at any rate.

Which means for three solid weeks she and her naked body were in my guest bed.

Seriously? It made me want to puke.

Juvenile? Totally. I know this is my issue. I just do not want to know that she and her nasty attitude, bad vibes were thrashing around and rubbing that body on my sheets. Like she was leaving a negative karma mark, ya know?

No, I did not boil the sheets when she left.

I did, however, clean the room.

If you know what I mean.

MIL Monday: The Card I Am Too Chicken To Send

The kidlets are gone to my parent's house. We are up to our assess with stuff for this move right now. What a logistical fucking nightmare this is. I am leaving on a jet plane tomorrow for the Deep South, and you know what? I am excited as hell.

I am also into my first bottle of wine. We'll see how this ends.

I know I am late with my MIL Monday post, but for now I only have the time to post the card I promised. Wouldn't it be nice to send it? A girl can dream.

MIL Monday: Soap Opera In the High Sierras

For today's installment, here is an excerpt of a post I made back when my in-laws were actually visiting. God, reading this does NOT make me look forward to their visiting again.

**After bursting into tears in front of my MIL yesterday because between all their demands I couldn't even eat my breakfast, we have a "heart-to-heart" of sorts. She says that I need to tell them what to do. I tell her that I am not comfortable giving orders and telling people "You, go make dinner", etc.--that it is okay for them to pitch in. She says that that is what she wants me to do. So apparently, no compromise here.

The upside: I do tell her/reassure her that it is okay for them to take LittleBird for walks in the morning in the stroller. That they can go down into her room and get her clothes to get her dressed and not wait for me. MIL says "Great".

**This morning I come upstairs--LittleBird is still in her pjs (she had been upstairs with them for nearly 3 hours). They tell me she ate all her cereal for breakfast. I ask if she has been changed. No, they say, she has not. My dd is is the same nasty filthy disposable diaper she has been wearing since we put her to bed last night and it is now nearly 11am. Fuck. So much for the talk Hubbie gave them about getting her changed in the mornings.

The silver lining: At least LittleBird hadn't pooped and did not have a rash.

**LittleBird has had a runny nose and a low-grade fever since yesterday. Last night when we put her to bed she puked everywhere after we tried to give her some medicine. LittleMan was up screaming all night with gas, and LittleBird never really slept--just fitfully turning over and over and crying. Obviously I couldn't take LittleBird to her classes today, but my ILs decided to keep their plans to go sightseeing in South Lake Tahoe. So right now I am home alone with a newborn and a congested, feverish toddler and no car.

Upside: They aren't here to see me cry.

MIL Monday: Sixteen Candles Reprise

Hubbie had his birthday last week. We had Skyped with his parents over the weekend, but they didn't mention his birthday. His birthday came--no email, no phone call, no text message. We Skyped with them yesterday. No mention. No asking what he had done, how it had gone. When Hubbie mentioned that we had gone out to dinner last weekend to celebrate his birthday because my mom was in town, they did not ask any questions or follow up on where we went or if we had a nice time. They completely ignored what Hubbie had said and changed the subject.

Fuckers.

I told Hubbie that we needed to rent Sixteen Candles in honor of his parents being total shits. But only if I got to feel him up.

MIL Monday: Florence Nightengale My Ass

I've been waiting for it to be Monday. Sometime during the last week I realized that I am way behind in my MIL Monday posts. Sure, I could post about her on any other day of the week but MIL Monday just has that ring to it.

Last fall, FIL found out that he had a herniated groin. They decided to do surgery even though it was not painful for him. Better to get it taken care of now than later, I guess.

We called the morning of the surgery to wish him good luck (the nine hour time difference actually worked in our favor this time). MIL answered the phone. We were a little surprised because we had intended to leave a message on their answering machine. What was going on?

MIL was at home.

FIL was at the hospital getting himself checked in.

The hospital is a very short drive from their house.

MIL slept in. FIL took the bus to his surgical appointment.

She made him take the fucking bus.

Hubbie and I were both incredulous. This is no minor surgery. One point Hubbie made was that his dad could have been the one to insist that she stay home. In this house? Not in a million years.

I have had four abdominal surgeries. There is so much paperwork to take care of when you get to the hospital, people to talk to. It is kind of freaky knowing that you are about to get knocked out and sliced open. You hope you wake up with all your parts.

She has been retired for six years. Every morning, when FIL goes to work he still brings her breakfast in bed.

Listen lady--If nothing else, go for moral support. Help with the paperwork. Help get him settled into the room. Be there for him.

Drive him to the fucking hospital.

MIL Monday: Christmas Cookies and Cigarettes

It's Monday! Time for another MIL story!

Since Christmas is on the way, I thought I would share a funny from when I thought I was going to learn how to bake traditional Swedish holiday cookies.

MIL asked me if I wanted to help her bake some Christmas cookies. I was psyched. I love to bake, and I am all about learning more about Hubbie's culture.

We get started making three or so recipes. And these are not out-of-a-package recipes. These are the roll-the-dough, twist-into-shape kind of labor-intensive cookies. I am all for it though. Until she asks me if I have got the hang of things. I need to go have a cigarette, she tells me.

And never came back.

Bitch left me in the kitchen rolling and pinching and twisting these cookies for hours while she smoked her cigs and drank her coffee with the rest of the family.

Hubbie, who was just bf at the time, came in to see what was going on. We both had a good laugh about it because we should not have been surprised at her behavior.

The next year when she asked me if I wanted to bake cookies, I was all the wiser. My answer was a big, fat, resounding NO.

Now don't get me wrong. I love love love to bake and cook. But I see it as a social thing. You talk and laugh. It is warm. Friendly. Hours go by and you don't even notice. Hell if MIL is going to take advantage of that and trick me into doing her work for her. It would have been one thing if she had asked me to do the baking. But do not act like we are going to have girlie time together and then sneak out the door and leave it all to me to do by my lonesome.

Any MIL stories you guys want to share? Good or bad? It is MIL Monday, afterall.

MIL Monday: It's Only A Flesh Wound

It's Monday, and therefore time for MIL Monday!

Here's the challenge--give us a MIL story. The good, the bad, the ugly. We want to hear it.

Since one of my labels is MIL Is A Wackjob, I do not think it is any shock that I have more of her bizarre behaviour to report.

Today while we were Skyping, LittleMan did a header into the corner of the wall. Screamed his little head off. I picked him up to comfort him since hubbie was talking online with his folks.

As I rocked and kissed the poor little guy, I brushed back his hair and saw that he had actually split the skin open on his forehead. Thankfully not enough that blood was flowing, but enough that you could see the meat under the skin. Yeah, yeah. That sounds gross, but you know exactly what I mean now.

Hubbie tells his parents Oh! That's why he was crying so much! He split his forehead open when he fell on the wall.

MIL laughs and says that he must have inherited his clumsiness from hubbie.

Laughs.

She fucking laughs.

No, Poor thing! No, Is he okay? No, That's terrible.

What a nutjob.

MIL Is a Wackjob: Mother's Day

I married a foreigner. An honest-to-god card-carrying-member foreigner. I have lived in his country, and we are back in the US for various reasons.

Mother's Day in the US was this past Sunday. I have not actually sent a card to his mother in quite sometime. Why? Several years ago, the conversation went like this:

Us: We wanted to wish you a happy Mother's Day
MIL: Huh?
Us: It is Mother's Day in the US, so we wanted to wish you a happy day
MIL: But it isn't Mother's Day here
Us: Right...but it is here in the US so we were calling to wish you a happy day
MIL: But is isn't Mother's Day here...

Okay, ungrateful hag. Nevermind.

So this year, I decided to send her a card anyway. I sent her a grandmother card from the kids. I am glad I send it before we talked to her on Sunday.

We Skyped with his parents, and when MIL sat down in front of the camera to talk, my sweet dh told her happy Mother's Day.

Her response, "Eh?"

So he repeated himself, today was Mother's Day in the US, blah blah blah. And she said, "Okay." Then changed the subject.

No happy Mother's Day wish to me or asking about our plans or anything. WTF, lady? I was so steamed by the end of the conversation I could barely see straight. I should have known this was coming. It is exactly how she always is, and it is my fault for having a Pollyanna attitude that it will be different the next time. I think she must have realized something was amiss because at the end of the conversation she told me to have a nice Mother's Day. Nice after thought, honey.

I am glad I took the high road and sent her a card anyway. I do not feel so charitable now, but it was the right thing to do.

Bring on the good karma. Or if I count my karma points, does it negate them?

MIL Is A Wackjob Because...

This is the first of many of these posts. I need to spare my poor dh the misery of my continuous litany of what a crazy bitch his mother is.

So for today...

My MIL is a wackjob because we told her not to smoke with the door open because the baby's bed was right next to the door. The rule in our new place was the same as our old: smoke on the balcony with the door SHUT.

Interestingly, the door would be shut if I were upstairs. If I were downstairs and she went out to smoke, lo and behold. The door would be open, my living room would be filled with tobacco smoke, and my one month-old was sleeping right there in the midst of it all. Fuck you, crazy lady!!!!! Kill yourself with your cancer sticks, but keep them away from my kids!