My mother-in-law is driving me all the way to crazytown because she is living with us for an entire month.
She is actually a very likeable woman on the whole, but sharing my home (and my office) with her right now is bringing out the brat in me. She keeps giving me advice. Or telling me how it is. The baby is a boy because my butt is big. I should be feeling the baby’s movements now – even though my doctor and every thing I have ever read on the subject says it will be weeks and weeks yet before I’ll feel anything. I shouldn’t drink anything with ice.
And the food thing. She is like the food police. She’s about a big as a sparrow herself, and started out at 45kg before her pregnancies, she never tires of telling me. She got to (gasp!) more than 70kg by the end. I suspect she is one of THOSE women, who like nothing better to talk constantly about how petite they are.
I am starting out at 71kg – wish it weren’t so but the last year or so of IVF and various treatments and drugs and general downheartedness did not bring out my exercise warrior. This should be obvious to anyone with eyeballs and you would think it might be indelicate to touch (let alone harp) on the subject.
I comfort myself with the thought that my BMI puts me just at the top of the “healthy weight range” and have braced myself for the obvious and necessary gain I’ll have in the next six months. Indeed, I am wholeheartedly grateful for it and can’t wait to see this belly grow.
But back to the MIL. She tells me constantly that she hardly eats anything but expects a cooked lunch everyday, and the moment I open the cupboard she’s there, like some kind of hungry retriever.
She tells me I can’t make potato salad because it’s full of carbohydrates (I just want something filling and bland with vegetables, and I used yoghurt as the dressing so how bad can it be??) And the list goes on.
I find myself shuttling from room to room trying to find space to work in between her incessant soap operas and phone calls (her bedroom is my office). She. Never. Leaves. The. House.
And tonight, I cracked when DH suggested a walk at sunset. I was looking to stretch my legs after a day inside, and he invited her along. She’s 74 and walks about the speed of a giant Galapagos land tortoise.
So I said I’d walk ahead and meet them on the way back. It was a beautiful serene evening and I got into my stride, imagining the 4cm little bubba bobbing away inside, wondering what the heck was going on. I tried out some baby name ideas, breathed deeply, enjoyed that last light of the day, and then met up with them.
It was obvious DH was pissed off with me. When we got back I asked and he suggested I just walk alone in future. So now I’m furious, and feeling sorry for myself, but at the same time ashamed at myself for not being able to nice to a little old lady. I know she actually means well with her advice. And she has been welcomed me into the family. But this family thing of DH’s suddenly seems so much bigger recently, what with the two teenage stepchildren, Christmas, New Year’s and the month long MIL visit. It’s just all a bit much right now.
And the worst thing is, he’s now packing his bags to go on a work trip for a week tomorrow.