Today I was in studio for a taping of a a web talk show I produce and one of our episodes focused on mothers-in-law (MILs in internet speak). In the green room there was lots of sharing of stories about MILs. Mostly horror stories. Overreaching women who criticize your parenting. Moms who still treat their adult sons like small spoiled children. The term “monster-in-law” was tossed around.
I laughed along with everyone – it was the socially acceptable thing to do – but my heart wasn’t in it. I didn’t have any stories to share. I only met my husband’s mother a handful of times. Less than a handful – three times. She died during our first few months of dating and I wish with all my heart I had a horror story about her to share because that would mean I got to know her well enough to complain. But, I never got to.
The only story I have to share is the one where I helped her take off her knee highs when I noticed she looked uncomfortable in her bed in the ER the night before the morning she died. We bonded over a hatred of tight leg coverings that leave lines on your calves. We laughed about how none of the men around her had noticed her discomfort since none had ever been tortured by knee highs. Nobody in the green room today wanted to hear this story.
I know my loss isn’t comparable to my husband’s, but hardly a week goes by when I don’t wish she were around. I wish my kids had gotten to meet their grandmother. I wish I had gotten to hear more stories about my husband’s childhood. I wish I’d gotten to know the strong, smart woman who’d raised the amazing man I love. I wish I had a mother-in-law to complain about. I wish, I wish.
This and These 