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Correction Department Florida Inmate Search

I wrote my MIL an email (because they live a few hours away and I hate talking on the phone). I brought to her what she was doing and how it made me feel. It was to the point without being rude and I focused more on how I felt…like: “When you ask us ‘when are you having grandbabies?’ it makes me feel guilty because your son and I want children but I am unable to give him that at this time.” The email was a success and it has made our relationship so much better with a lot less tension. I still find myself annoyed with all of her quirky habits but by opening the doors of communication, it seems that we have a much better relationship.

It still won’t excuse the fact that she harasses me with things like “I CAN’T BELIEVE that you don’t like ice in your drink!!! EVERYONE likes ice in their drink,” then giving me a glass with ice in it even though I specifically asked for none or insisting that we have ham everytime my husband and I visit, knowing that I can’t stand fat saturated, nitrite infested meat. Oh well! Some things are never going to change but if it’s a big issue or one you find yourself getting sincerely upset about, it’s best to tackle it head on.

Anyway, onward with the MILness. I have a special, “good” sort of problem compared to some of your readers with crazy-ass, overbearing, nightmarish MILs. Let me first paint a picture of the MIL in all her glory. When I first began dating my husband (we’ve been married a month - what fun!), we did the custmary stay up late to watch movies, look at photos, talk about family and friends sort of events. I immediately noticed that all the photos of his mother featured her with jazz hands. She’s the type of woman who will jump into someone else’s shot just to add comedy flair. You know the type - energetic, wild, hyper, unstoppable. Not something you see often from a woman who just turned 50, I’ve acquired her through marriage and must access The Wild One.

The first day I met her was also an energetic, wild, hyper, unstoppable time. We made the 6-hour drive to his folk’s house and arrived just after midnight. I felt bad for arriving so late, but in hindsight this was really the MIL’s prime time, as the nighttime seems to bring out her extra fruity, super dazzly jazz hands side. She came tearing out of that house as soon as we pulled into the driveway, sporting a pink robe and slippers. The MIL fired over to my side, literally pulled me out of the car, and shouted for joy over meeting me for the first time. And then, she insisted we make cocoa, put on the oldies, and stay up until dawn gabbing away.

I’m so not exaggerating.

And now, a picture of myself: technical writer married to a computer programmer (read: geeks), fine dining and red wine drinker (read: no cocoa and oldies party in my jammies), and calm, cool, and collected (read: do not ruin the photos of others with exuberent run-bys and jump-ins).

I found the MIL pretty charming at first - whose to stop a woman from having fun? Shoot, we should all be so excited to simply breathe a new breath each morning. Sure, she could get a bit annoying when my afternoon crankiness hit or her storm of energy cramped my “Shall we discuss politics over Jazz?” style, but really, there are worse problems to have than a happy MIL.

But then, he proposed to me. And then, the wedding drew near. And then, the once happy MIL got a streak of somberness.

He’s her oldest son, and she doesn’t have a daughter, so I can definitely see the bittersweet side of marriage through her eyes. I know that she adores me, and that she’s very glad her son chose me as his life partner, but she’s really changing. Things went from “Let’s go bowling everyone!!! I’ll race you there!!!” to a tearful, “What do you mean you two are having your own Thanksgiving this year?! What will I do?!”

And so, there’s my problem: the happy, formerly too excitable and bordering on insane MIL who I used to lovingly roll my eyes at has become depressed and “My son is gone!”-ish.

I feel pretty guilty. But darn it, I want to cook my husband a turkey this year.

Help?

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