Friday

I woke up this morning and hopped cheerfully out of bed, in a really good mood already because of the good thing / good news. By the time I was getting into the shower, it was getting perplexing that I couldn’t remember exactly/specifically what the good thing/news was, or even what category of thing it was (something fun happening today? someone getting married or having a baby? the satisfying resolution of something stressful? did William get good college news? am I leaving on a road trip? is there cake?), but I knew it would come to me soon, and then I’d feel so silly for temporarily forgetting! Now that I am up and I’ve had my coffee, it seems as if the good thing/news must have been part of a dream.

But I was so SURE, when I woke up, that there was something happy and energizing going on! It didn’t FEEL like part of a dream; it felt like “Oh good, I’m awake, and now there is the happy thing to contend with!” And I was so relieved and glad to be waking up happy, because the last few days have been enormously stressful and sad: we finally listed our old house, and I am not coping well, and there is a fair amount of crying by someone, and I am wishing that I could go somewhere that would put me in a medically-induced sleep until it was over, and every morning I have woken up and been immediately slammed with adrenaline and stress as soon as I remember. So THIS morning was such a nice break! Except now I am more concerned about the state of my mind! Because that was really strange! There was nothing good to leap out of bed for, but I hallucinated something!

I’m glad to be getting coffee with a friend later this morning, because that is a good way to hit the mental reset button. And this particular friend is a sensible, confident person, married to a man who is more like me, fretful and anxious, so she is accustomed to dealing with little spin-outs. Plus, sitting in a coffee/pastry shop for a couple of hours makes me smell DELICIOUS.

Road Trips

I recently took two fun road trips, one to pick up Rob from college for spring break, and one to return him to college afterward. It’s the perfect length for a drive: about 8 hours each way including stops. That’s far enough to justify staying in a motel in between, and I love staying in motels.

Except this time I did not. I felt weird and paranoid and unsettled, starting during dinner and lasting throughout the evening, and when I was supposed to be sleeping I was instead having distressing irrational thoughts such as “What if William slipped and fell on his way home from work, and Paul went to bed early without noticing that he never came home, and he’s out in the dark freezing to death right now???” Fortunately I have a prescription to use for things like this, so I took half a tablet as prescribed, and it did nothing. I took the other half, and it did nothing. For a couple of hours I tried various things to avoid lying in the dark imagining how I’d get everyone out of the house if there were a fire: I put the TV on a soothing channel; I turned the room fan to various temperatures/settings; I put on soothing music; I played Candy Crush while lying down; I counted backwards from 10,000 by threes. Finally I did fall asleep, but it was so disappointing to have wasted a motel room like that.

Because of a complication that is too boring to explain, I also stayed in a motel the next night. This time I was prepared, and took Benadryl awhile before bedtime (Benadryl always knocks me out), and was careful not to eat too many snacks too late in the evening, and I thought it would help that I’d slept poorly the night before—but I STILL had the weird/paranoid/irrational thing happen, and had a lot of trouble sleeping.

I wonder if it’s that I have plenty of time on my own now. When I used to fantasize about motel rooms, it was at least in part because I had children with me ALL THE TIME: the constant noise! the constant touching! the constant needs! the constant mess! A motel room seemed like an oasis of quiet and clean and alone. But now everyone’s in school during the day and I have large daily doses of alone time. That may have shifted the whole motel thing around, so that now being alone/quiet doesn’t feel so exhilarating. Maybe now what I need is a party cruise or something.

When I brought Rob back at the end of the week, I asked Elizabeth if she wanted to go with us, and she did. That changed the WHOLE DYNAMIC. After we dropped Rob off, she and I went to Target to get more Pringles for the drive home (we were perilously low), and then we went out to dinner. We got back to the motel room at about 6:30, decided it was too early to be back at the motel, and went out to a couple of stores where we bought a mouse-shaped planter (Elizabeth), a pretty green cocktail glass (me), and more junk food (both). We returned to the hotel between 8:00 and 8:30, changed into our pjs, and each made a nest of snacks and phones and pillows on our respective queen-sized beds. We watched Trading Spaces, which I hadn’t seen in years and Elizabeth had never seen (Elizabeth: “That is a BAD PLAN.” “WHY WOULD THEY DO THAT.” “Who ARE these people??”) and then we were channel-flipping and found the 2016 Ghostbusters movie and watched the middle section of that while playing games on our phones and eating snacks.

We had a great time. Plus, this meant I had someone to play “Pop Song or CHRISTIAN Pop Song?” with in the car on the way there AND on the way back: I can play that game alone, but I’m so good at it and prefer to have someone along to be impressed. At home I have all my radio stations pre-set so I never end up accidentally listening to a Christian station, but road trips are FULL of such misunderstandings. “Whenever I am in doubt…” the singer sings, and I say “It’s Christian,” and the child says, “What? Why?,” and I shrug humbly. I know I am right, before we even get to the part where they sing something more obvious like “…the glory of your kingdom…” or “…give my heart to you, O Lord,” or make some reference to pastures/shepherds/sacrifices/sins/purifying.

The best ones are when we really can’t tell, and then it takes a twist that would be horrifying in a pop song and so it is abruptly and startlingly clear it is a Christian song. Like, the song goes “No one has ever loved me like you do,” and that’s nice, and then it goes “You have all my love,” and that’s nice and you hope this nice couple will have a happy life together, and then it goes to “I am washed clean in your blood” and !!!!! And the children have not grown up with this kind of talk as I did, so it sounds even more thrillingly shocking to them.

Swistle and the Boring Case of the Wool Sock that Turned Into a Regular Sock

I have told this story to three family members so far, and all three of them found it boring. But the situation was so temporarily MYSTIFYING, I cannot suppress the desire to continue to tell the story.

First you need backstory about my socks. (Hang in there.) In winter, I wear a pair of regular socks, and then a pair of thin wool socks over the regular socks. Then shoes. I put them on in this order: one regular sock, one wool sock, one shoe; other regular sock, other wool sock, other shoe. (“I like to take care of one foot at a time!”)

Because the wool socks aren’t against my skin, and because I have only two pairs of them, I usually re-wear them several times before putting them in the laundry, changing only the regular socks. I don’t usually wear the wool socks at night, though I occasionally do. When I take the wool socks off, I put them into the bin of shoes at the foot of my bed. (I am sorry that the foot of a bed is involved in this story; it seems unnecessarily confusing with all the other foot/feet references.)

Also, you should know that my regular socks are mostly different. That is, I have a pair of purple socks, a pair of brown-and-cream-striped socks, a pair of navy blue socks, a pair of grey socks with yellow toes and a yellow stripe, etc. There are some duplicates (I really like the grey ones with yellow toes/stripe so I bought another pair the next time I was at the store; the brown-and-cream-stripe ones were on a good clearance so I bought a couple of pairs), but mostly it’s a variety. I pick whatever pair looks best with that day’s shirt/sweater.

Okay, you did a good job listening to all that. Here is what happened: Yesterday I put on a regular sock, a wool sock, a shoe; then I put on the second regular sock, reached for the second wool sock—and found a regular sock that matched the other two regular socks.

First I assumed I must have put two wool socks on the first foot. But I checked, and no: I had one regular sock and one wool sock. Then I thought I must have put a wool sock on my second foot instead of a regular sock. But I checked, and no: I had a regular sock on. I looked again at the spare regular sock. Really, it felt to me like the beginning of a movie where there is some sort of glitch in reality. Like next the time travelers would come bursting through a wall.

This is the part where Paul said I had built up enough mystification and I could get to the part where I told him the solution, but I declined to skip anything, just as I decline to skip anything now. Because there was MORE CHECKING, and I feel that is relevant to the story. I checked my first foot again, in case I had had a mental lapse and not seen the socks correctly, but no: regular sock plus wool sock. I checked my second foot again: regular sock. I checked the remaining sock again: regular sock. I PINCHED each sock with my fingers to MAKE SURE each one was the material I thought it was. It COULD NOT BE that I had three regular socks and one wool sock, and yet that was what I had.

I thought perhaps I had somehow ended up with a third regular sock but ALSO had two wool socks. If I found the second wool sock, I could believe a reality where I had a third regular sock: perhaps it fell out of the laundry basket while I was doing laundry, for example. I checked the shoe bin: no wool sock. I checked the bed around me: no wool sock. I stood up to check under where I was sitting: no wool sock. I checked the floor all around the foot of the bed and shoe bin: no wool sock.

The part of this story that remains interesting to ME is how thoroughly derailing this was. I couldn’t think of a solution to this mystery, and it made me feel like something was wrong with my brain. Reality was clearly broken in some way, either externally or internally. It’s not that the socks were so important (it isn’t as if I woke up in a house I didn’t recognize, or discovered I was married to a different person), but a wool sock apparently turning into a regular sock still seemed QUITE IMPORTANT.

Well, I will tell you the solution now, because of course there was one. This was one of those situations where there were TWO things that went wrong, which is why it was so hard to solve—like when the checkbook won’t balance and it’s because there’s a missing item AND you accidentally wrote $101.34 instead of $101.43, so the two errors combine to make something almost impossible to figure out with the usual little checkbook-balancing tricks such as looking for an amount that matches (or doubles, or halves) the difference between the two end amounts. Anyway: (1) I’d worn the wool socks to bed the night before, which was unusual. (2) AND that morning I coincidentally chose a pair of regular socks that was a duplicate of the regular socks I’d worn the previous day, which was unlikely.

When I got out of bed, I intended to take off my doubled socks and put the regular ones in the laundry and the wool ones in my shoe bin; instead I put one regular sock and one wool sock into the laundry, and one regular sock and one wool sock into my shoe bin. Then I took a shower. Then, when I was getting dressed, I chose a pair of regular socks that were the same as the previous day’s socks. And I took the two socks out of my shoe bin without looking at them carefully. So then I had (1) one regular sock from the previous day, (2) one wool sock from the previous day, (3) two regular socks from the current day, which coincidentally matched the regular sock from the previous day. If I’d chosen a DIFFERENT pair of socks, and so had had two brown regular socks and one purple regular sock, I think I would have figured things out sooner. OR if my wool socks weren’t a brown similar to the regular socks, I might have noticed when I took the two socks out of the shoe bin.

Patriarchy Legs

Until this morning, I had not shaved my legs in over three months. Closer to four months. This was the first time I’d ever stopped shaving my legs: I started shaving at around age 12, the day a cute boy swam underwater at the pool and grabbed my ankle, and there have been only brief pauses since. Like, I would go a week, sure. But I never Stopped Shaving until around November of last year when the stresses involved in moving from one house to another, combined with feeling as if I could not handle even one more unnecessary chore, combined with spending the last few years being particularly pissed about the patriarchy, combined with resenting my own personal white male husband for feeling free to make this move despite my misery, combined with being freezing all the time in the new house—all of these things led to a shaving cessation that was at first accidental and then became increasingly deliberate.

Like, at first I just had skipped shaving for a few days because I was busy and stressed. Then it had been a couple of weeks because I was feeling sad and was looking for all the small ways to Do Less. I’m not sure when it switched to being more of a stance/experiment/THING. There was a longish prickly stage, but at a certain point all the leg hair had grown out, and it was surprising to me how soft/unnoticeable it was in FEEL. I could certainly SEE it, and my legs looked unfamiliar to me, and I didn’t like the look—but the hair was very soft and fairly straight, and my legs didn’t FEEL hairy or coarse like guys’ legs do. And I did think it might actually make me warmer, since that is what body hair is FOR.

And also: I was feeling a fair amount of rage on the topic of MEN AND THEIR OPINIONS ABOUT WOMEN’S BODIES, so that was motivating. I should say here that Paul has never said a single word about women’s body hair, nor has he indicated with so much as a glance that he even HAS an opinion, nor did he comment on the leg hair experiment and I’m not sure he even noticed. BUT MEN IN GENERAL.

Then it got to the point where I felt almost like I couldn’t start shaving again, even if I wanted to: it was like when you grow your head-hair long and then you get tired of it and/or remember all the reasons you don’t wear your hair long, but now it feels like you can’t cut it or you’ll lose all that time/progress. Or like when you grow out bangs: there’s a hurdle to get over, and once you’ve suffered through that hurdle, it feels wrong to reset the situation. On the other hand, I didn’t like the way my legs looked, and I DID want to start shaving again before warmer weather, so it was only a matter of choosing WHEN. I picked up a razor now and then, but each time put it back down.

The last week or so I’ve been feeling more as if the only thing stopping me was the feeling of Investment: I didn’t want the leg hair anymore, and wasn’t having fun with the experiment anymore. I gave it time (we still have more winter to shiver through) but this morning I’d had enough and I picked up the razor and I’m back to patriarchy legs. They really do feel chillier.

Crazy Cake Revisited

Do you remember long ago, when I posted a venting post about the Crazy Cake that is so beloved in Paul’s family? It is a Depression Era cake, and so it contains no eggs, no butter, and only one tablespoon of baking cocoa per entire layer of “chocolate” cake. (Those quotation marks are just as bitchy as you imagine.)

Trust me that I know and understand that a Beloved Family Recipe can taste DELICIOUS to a person, even if it has no butter and no eggs and features a Depression-Era skimp on cocoa. (And of course it is LOVELY to have a cake option like this if you are looking for a dairy/egg-free cake for allergy reasons, though I’d advise DRAMATICALLY INCREASING the cocoa.) We have similar recipes in my own family, including a cherished delight that has come down through the generations and is nothing more than pork sausage seasoned with salt and pepper and baked into rolls of white bread dough, then dipped into ketchup; this is our HUGE SPECIAL OCCASION meal. We also have a green Jell-o salad that has cottage cheese in it, so please don’t think I don’t understand sentimental family recipes.

But I also understand that my sentimental family recipes are not OBJECTIVELY good to people who didn’t grow up with them and so have neither the “family” nor the “sentimental” elements. I expect Paul to eat the white-bread-wrapped sausage rolls on my family’s special occasions, but I don’t expect him to talk about how AMAZING and EXCEPTIONAL the recipe is, which is what his family does about this cake. It’s so MOIST! It’s so DELICIOUS! It’s the BEST CAKE EVER! Not like those inferior “BOX” mixes! (They say their quotes all bitchy-like, too.)

So if this cake is cherished to you because of you grew up with it and your grandma baked it whenever you visited or whatever, and your family always brings it out on special occasions, I DO get where you are coming from. But I think in order to discuss the cake further, we need to remember and agree that it is a DEPRESSION ERA cake. It was meant to substitute for the real thing when essential ingredients were not available. It’s like a diet recipe that uses fat-free “cream” and artificial sweetener and cottage cheese and applesauce to simulate a dessert. It is a MAKE-DO dessert, a SURVIVAL dessert. We now have ACCESS to the butter and eggs and cream and sugar and cocoa, so GOD KNOWS why we would continue to make do with the survival cake. On the other hand, I now have the option to eat filet mignon on Christmas Eve but I would greatly prefer my salt/pepper sausage wrapped in white bread and dipped in ketchup, and I would resent any attempts to tell me the filet mignon was “better,” so I DO get it. (But if our recipe had been made from inferior ingredients during the Depression, like suet and tongue-end mixed with stale bread crumbs to simulate meat, you can bet I’d substitute the better ingredients now that we had them, rather than preserving The Original Recipe.)

In short, I have feelings and opinions about this cake, and yet I am committed to making this cake for Paul every year on his birthday, and I am committed to doing it with as good an attitude as I can muster: I will tell YOU how frustrating I find it, but I will not vent to HIM. (Much.) (Anymore.) And also, I have a certain percentage of self-identity invested in my baking, and food/gifts are my love language, and so I want it to be as good as possible: I take no pleasure (very little pleasure) in having it come out terrible. I have re-copied his mother’s recipe onto my own index card in my own handwriting, to reduce the resentment I feel and hopefully improve the results by not making me feel as if her grating, critical, bossy voice is in my ear. I have committed to NOT trying to substitute butter/eggs/etc. to make it taste “better,” remembering that I would not want Paul to substitute any ingredients in one of my cherished family recipes, if he ever made one of my cherished family recipes for me.

But here is the thing: for at least the last half-dozen years, and possibly longer, the cake has come out IMPOSSIBLY BADLY. It NEVER came out of the pan easily, but it used to come out in no more than two to three pieces per layer, and I could paste those together with frosting and resentment—but the last half-dozen years, it has had to be SPOONED out of the pan in chunks. I am not exaggerating when I say I have cried and screamed, literally cried and screamed, after carefully carefully carefully applying Crisco and flour to the cake pans, carefully following the recipe, and still getting oily pale-brown chunks that can’t be formed into a cake. Paul has had to spend more than one Birthday Eve reassuring me that it’s okay and it doesn’t matter and that he’ll have something else as his birthday dessert, and no one should have to do that on their Birthday Eve and/or on the topic of their once-per-year special sentimental dessert. THIS CANNOT CONTINUE.

Here is where you come in, I HOPE: If you make this recipe as a Cherished Family Cake and you like it, can you tell me anything you do that HAS to be done to make it come out right? Maybe I copied it wrong from my mother-in-law’s stupid picky bossy recipe card. Or maybe it literally requires two tablespoons of actual vanilla extract (that’s the same as the amount of cocoa), at the current non-Depression-Era price of roughly six dollars, and maybe everything is going wrong because I substituted imitation vanilla or because I made the assumption that 2 T. was a transcription error and it should have been 2 t. Maybe my attempt to add more cocoa is the problem, though I have tried going back to the original two tablespoons, with no improvement. Maybe there was an instruction about removal-from-the-pans that I thought I could do without. Or maybe when I rolled my eyes at instructions such as “Beat exactly two minutes BY THE CLOCK!!!!,” I was rolling my eyes at actual essential elements of the magic spell. I may have worked in a bakery, but that doesn’t mean I understand MAGICAL SPELLS. I will accept the magical spell from YOUR family’s recipe, even as I resisted it from Paul’s family recipe. I will accept YOUR gentle guidance even though I rejected Paul’s mother’s bossy fist. (Gah, that woman was the WORST with recipes. All of them were either “Oh, I don’t really use measurements or instructions” with a merry little laugh, or else SUPER DUPER EXCESSIVELY PICKY AND DETAILED WITH LOTS OF ALL-CAPS.)

And I’m not above some fussy prissiness in a recipe. When I was on Weight Watchers, if you had told me I needed to whip a mixture for two full minutes, or use the fat-free sugar-free version of an item, or use ground oatmeal instead of flour, I would absolutely have done it without blinking or flinching. And now that I’m on keto, if you told me to use a particular kind of meat, or use more butter, or use a specific weird expensive sugar substitute, I would be similarly all-in. “Doing it the right way” is not a problem as long as it is not my mother-in-law telling me what is right. (And if you’ve never had a single problem and it’s the easiest/best cake in the world and you don’t know what I could be talking about, you know that’s not helpful and you can keep it.)

 

Follow-up: After writing this post, I impulsively decided to make the cake in a no-birthday-pressure environment, just to see what happened, and maybe to get some good photos of it sticking to the pan. And instead it came out beautifully, and did not fall apart into any chunks. Here are the things I did that may or may not have been important:

• A wet-ingredients bowl and a dry-ingredients bowl, and not combining until the last minute. Which I have done before, because see also: I like to bake and have worked in a bakery.

• Then mixing them for EXACTLY TWO MINUTES BY THE CLOCK (with one pause to scrape the bowl), which I have done before, because see also: really trying to get this right, even if it means allowing end results to take priority over irritations and resentments.

• Letting the cakes cool for 15 minutes, then using a soft spatula to go around the edges before de-panning, which I have done before, because see also: I like to bake and have worked in a bakery.

• I did, however, QUADRUPLE the cocoa powder, because 1 T. per cake layer is nothing more than FOOD COLORING. Even a QUADRUPLE amount is not really enough, but I don’t want to ruin Paul’s childhood memories. But I have increased the cocoa before without him noticing/minding.

 

Second follow-up: Wait. Wait wait wait. THE OVEN. Our oven was gradually failing for a number of years, then we recently replaced it, but then we moved so I never tried the cake in the new oven. The new house has an oven that we have noticed is very good: some things that were troublesome to bake before are now non-troublesome. And “oven” is the only answer I can think of that explains why I USED to be able to make the cake come out right, but then couldn’t anymore.

Snow Discouragement

The existence of snow is enough to defeat me this year. On a day when it does NOT snow, and when the previous snow has been handled/melted/dried to the point that the roads/driveways are clear and dry, I can just barely make myself do the absolutely required tasks of my life: I can shower and dress, I can go for groceries, I can take the children to their appointments, I can keep us in clean laundry. I can’t unpack any more boxes, but that genuinely can wait, and also I tell myself that with every week that goes by without needing the contents of those boxes, I am another week closer to knowing if I can get rid of that stuff entirely. (This does not work when, for example, I buy another box of envelopes because I can’t face digging out the stationery/office box. But it works for SOME things.)

But the snow! It’s a giant mess that just DROPS on us! Just drops EVERYWHERE! And we have to go outside and CLEAN IT ALL UP. And we CAN’T really clean it all up, so then we have dirty slush everywhere, and we track it everywhere, and it falls off the bottom of our cars into our nice clean garages, and our terrible children walk across our nice clean floors without taking their shoes off and then say “Oh whoops” like it’s not the end of the world!

And when it snows, it makes a mess of SCHEDULES, too. Appointments that are now difficult and dangerous to get to! Errands that need to be delayed until we can shovel out! Driveways that MUST be shoveled by 8:00 a.m. because someone is coming to clean/deliver! Trips to the grocery store that have to be done earlier than planned (along with half the town) or else later (when the milk/eggs/bread/cheese situation is getting dire, and slush gets tracked inside with every load).

Moving during winter was a terrible idea. We have this new giant steep depressing driveway that I already hated before shoveling was a factor, plus we have to keep going over to the old house to shovel THAT driveway TOO. And we discovered something new for me to resent about the new house: the roof is set up so that it dumps snow directly in front of the two doors. The last time it snowed, I carefully shoveled that whole entire area (walking a distance with each shovelful, because there’s nowhere to PUT the snow)—and a couple of hours later, it was as if I hadn’t been out there at all: over a foot of snow, blocking the doors, with a nice clear clean roof shining in the sun. We shoveled it again, and soon there was an ice slick there instead: the dripping from the roof made what was basically an icicle puddle. There were ice stalagmites that explain why the threshold of one doorway is chipped weirdly so that it lets in drafts: the ice forms in lumps so that the door won’t open, so then you have to hack at it with a shovel, and damage occurs. And that area gets no sun, so even with salt and sand and time, there is still a nice little welcome mat of ice to menace anyone who comes to the house.

Paul says helpfully that there are “things that can be done,” but it is not clear to me that that is the case. There’s already something built into the roof over each door, something that looks as if it’s supposed to divert snow/rain, but does not manage to do that at all: when it rains, rain pours down off the roof directly where you’re standing as you struggle to unlock the door; when snow is melting, it drips right in front of the door to make ice RIGHT THERE. Paul said something vague about a canopy, but I don’t know; the problem seems bigger than that to me. It’s a Total Design issue: the driveway was built to go right up to the house, and to go all along one side of the house, and the snow from the roof is GOING to fall off right there; if it doesn’t fall directly in front of the door, it will fall directly to the left of the door and still need to be shoveled, and we’ll still have to walk a distance to find a place to put each shovelful. It’s a bad design, and now it’s our responsibility.

I try to be optimistic: spring is coming! Just because the daffodil stems I bought at the grocery store earlier this week dried up without opening, that’s not an omen! There can only be so much more snow, and tomorrow is March! MARCH! But winter will come back next year, and the year after that, and the year after that, and the year after that. “And this is just our lives now,” said Elizabeth while helping me shovel an area we had shoveled earlier, capturing my exact sentiment. At this point I have to think bigger picture: Just think what a relief it will be when we move out of this house someday in the distant future!

Daffodils; Songs from the ’80s/’90s We’re Not Sick of Yet

This is the time of year my grocery store offers little bundles of ten closed daffodils for $1.79, and if your grocery store does something similar I highly recommend finding a vase in the back of your highest cabinet and taking it down and putting some daffodils into it. I go to the grocery store twice a week, so if I buy a bunch each time, I maintain a nice full bouquet even when I have to take out the wilted ones. It bolsters my late-winter mood SO SURPRISINGLY MUCH, just having some yellow spring flowers in the house. If you don’t have a vase but you do have a Goodwill, check there: ours has TONS of vases for like a dollar each, and I would think their supply would be especially high right after Valentine’s Day.

Speaking of mood-bolstering, it was so fun to talk about music with you guys on Twitter the other day.

I sat at my computer while replies came in, listening to option after option on YouTube. So many good songs! I went with Kiss (Prince), Owner of a Lonely Heart (Yes), Everybody Wants You (Billy Squier), Call It Love (Poco), and The Cure (Lady Gaga). (That last one doesn’t at all match what I was looking for but I wanted to hear it so I put it in.) There were a ton of other suggestions that were exactly the kind of song I like, and the only reason I didn’t choose them was that I’d already chosen them on previous occasions. Here are some of those, mixed with others I’ve brought before, in case you are looking for similar songs:

Time After Time (Cyndi Lauper)
Footloose (Kenny Loggins)
Take On Me (A-ha)
Venus (Bananarama)
Joking (Indigo Girls)
Least Complicated (Indigo Girls)
Hearts of the World Will Understand (Starship)
We Built This City (Starship)
Love Walks In (Van Halan)
Dancing in the Dark (Bruce Springsteen)
Dancer in a Daydream (Ace of Base)
All Out of Love (Air Supply)
Can’t Fight This Feeling (REO Speedwagon)
Walking on Sunshine (Katrina and the Waves)
Jump for My Love (Pointer Sisters)
Straight Up (Paula Abdul)
Love and Affection (Nelson)
Free Your Mind (En Vogue)
I Remember You (Skid Row)
Just Can’t Get Enough (Depeche Mode)
Invisible Touch (Genesis)
Edge of a Broken Heart (Vixen)
Pictures of You (The Cure)
So Alive (Love and Rockets)
Mystify (INXS)
Slide (Goo Goo Dolls)
Name (Goo Goo Dolls)
Walk Like an Egyptian (The Bangles)
Just What I Needed (The Cars)
Magic (The Cars)
Best Friend (Queen)
Wait (White Lion)
Don’t You Forget About Me (Simple Minds)
Closing Time (Semisonic)
Good Riddance (Green Day)
Wonderwall (Oasis)
I Want You (Savage Garden)
Against All Odds (Phil Collins)
Take a Chance on Me (Erasure)
Bizarre Love Triangle (New Order)
Birdhouse in Your Soul (They Might Be Giants)
For the Longest Time (Billy Joel)
Obsession (Animotion)
Forever Young (Alphaville)
To Be With You (Mr. Big)
The Power of Love (Huey Lewis and the News)
Glory of Love (Peter Cetera)
Jimmy Olsen’s Blues (Spin Doctors)
Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong (Spin Doctors)
You Spin Me Round (Dead or Alive)

(I realize some of these came out in the 1970s, but we were still listening to them later on. There was a big Queen fad after Wayne’s World came out, for example. And in high school I found a Cars Greatest Hits album on a clearance rack and listened to it a million times.)

A Morning of Parenting Teenagers

This morning Elizabeth, age 13, got mad at me because after I agreed that nine of the ten things she told me about one of her classes sounded annoying, I mildly countered the tenth thing, saying I thought it was a reasonable thing for the teacher to assume. She argued back, near tears, then lashed out that she would just go complain to the teacher about things 1-9, then!

Then 17-year-old William said, as I was walking out the door to bring the other kids to school, that no one told him we were going to a movie tonight, so he hadn’t changed his work schedule, so he couldn’t go. We have been talking about this movie all week. It’s true it’s not like I said to him, “William: remember, we are going to the movie on Wednesday, so be sure to change your work schedule”—but the original plan was to go last Wednesday and I DID say that very thing to him then, so when it was postponed a week I guess I assumed he would realize he would need to do the same thing again? He says we never indicated that the movie was going to be tonight, just sometime in the future. But since it did come up numerous times in other ways throughout the week, I don’t see how he can not have known. My guess is that he didn’t think of the work implications until this morning, then suddenly did think of it and felt dumb, and then panicked and tried to make it our fault so he could huff around the kitchen huffily instead of saying “Oh no, I screwed up the plan!”

All of this was before 7:15 in the morning.

It’s so discouraging to do SO MANY THINGS for kids: listening and supporting what they say, acquiring for them the things they need for projects, keeping a supply of their favorite foods, keeping them supplied with clothing, seeing things they’ll like and impulsively buying them, keeping track of their appointments and writing their notes for school and remembering to pick them up, reminding them about so many things—and then have them be upset over the tiny percentage of things I don’t do. It’s especially annoying when it’s not something I got wrong or made a mistake on (though occasional human error should ALSO be understandable): it would be one thing if I said I would be sure to get X and then I forgot, but in a lot of these cases it’s NO ONE PUT IT ON THE LIST SO I DIDN’T KNOW WE WERE OUT OF IT or YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE HANDLING YOUR OWN WORK SCHEDULE or I’M NOT GOING TO SIDE WITH YOU AGAINST A TOTALLY REASONABLE THING YOUR TEACHER THINKS.

Reading this over, I think this comes across like I’m the meek martyred mother figure, rushing around in everyone’s service, allowing the family to walk all over me, wincing and apologizing—but that is not how it is and not how I mean to convey it. I say those all-caps parts LOUDLY and TO THE FAMILY, not just in my head after they’re all gone to school/work and I’m alone in my housewife apron. I say “NO ONE PUT IT ON THE LIST!” when there’s a complaint about being out of something, and “We have been talking about this for a WEEK!” when someone claims ignorance of the schedule, and “You are supposed to be thinking ahead about your schedule and handling it WITHOUT me reminding you” when there is a conflict. (Okay, I didn’t say “I’m not going to side with you against a totally reasonable thing your teacher thinks!” But I did re-assert, mildly and kindly, that I really did think the teacher was reasonable to assume the students would know what time class ended.) It’s just, I’m feeling irritable-sad-cranky-resentful that their first impulse is to blame me, and that they don’t seem to compare the things they see as my failings to all the things I DO do for them, not that any child ever HAS made that comparison, not in all the history of time.

This morning I think I was getting some misdirected blame for stuff going on in other areas. Elizabeth is probably upset about something about that class, so when I disagreed with something she said, she took it as a chance to redirect the upset at me. William is probably overwhelmed with senior year and work and waiting for college decisions, and so when something slipped through the cracks, he found a chance to blame someone else for it this time. And I know a parent is supposed to be a safe place for that, but don’t you get sick of it sometimes? I get sick of it sometimes.

Anticipating Our Own Era as Mothers-in-Law

Hi Swistle,

I know you sometimes post reader questions, and this came to mind while reading your post about Rob coming home from college and the dynamics between an older child and parents. I also know you had a hard time with your mother-in-law.

I commented that, as the mother of all boys, I have a huge fear—my biggest parenting fear, in fact—that my boys will all marry women who dislike me or don’t care about having a relationship with me, and I will end up not having a close or satisfying relationship with my adult sons (or grandkids, for that matter.). Right now, my boys are all still little enough that they worship me and I am the center of their world, and I know that all goes away and that’s natural, but I hate to think that someday these little boys will end up like my husband is with his mother: frequently annoyed and rather distant.

Let me explain: I have a very annoying mother-in-law. I won’t go into the many, many examples I could share (which are endlessly entertaining to my friends), but she is a strong mix of passive-aggressive and undermining. She also possesses some of my most disliked personality flaws, including being braggy and two-faced. She certainly doesn’t think I worship my husband enough, and that he is above and beyond what I could ever deserve. We are very different in pretty much every way.

As a result, I’m sure I have complained and griped about her to my husband more than my fair share, but he agrees with me on all points and now feels much closer to my family. (I am biased, but I do think my parents and siblings are pretty darn great.) He has actually told me that he feels closer to my siblings than his, that he respects my parents opinions more and prefers to get their advice on things instead, and so on. Which is great for me now, but I fear that karma is going to bite me and I’m going to end up living the rhyme, “A son is a son till he marries his wife, but a daughter’s a daughter for the rest of my life.” It certainly feels true to me now.

So, for debate—this is long, please feel free to cut out all the backstory—what makes for a bad or good mother-in-law? What can we moms do to avoid those strained relationships with our future in-laws? I am heartened to know that my mom had a wonderful relationship with my paternal grandma, and I know there are other cases like that. But—what makes for those good and bad relationships? To be fair, my MIL was not a bad mom—very affectionate and fawning and permissive and special snow-flakey, but not a bad mom. She loves her kids a lot. I feel certain that my MIL believes she is actually an *excellent* mother and mother-in-law, and would be absolutely baffled to hear anything to the contrary. Is being self-aware enough?? How do I know whether I am self-aware? Maybe I, too, am actually a super annoying person?!

Thanks!

 

I am RIGHT THERE WITH YOU. The discussion has come up often with various of my friends, as our children approach the era of bringing new people legally into our families. How can we avoid being Bad Mothers-in-Law, when surely the bad mothers-in-law we know did not SET OUT to be terrible, and yet they STILL ARE?

(A digression already, when we have hardly even gotten started: I am going to be talking primarily about mothers-in-law, because in our society the mother-in-law relationship is considered the fraught one, and the father-in-law relationship is not. An individual father-in-law can have serious faults, but we don’t talk about fathers-in-law as a group the way we talk about mothers-in-law. This could be yet another area where women are held to a different/higher standard—like when female politicians must be likeable and have pleasant voices and answer questions about how they’re taking care of their children, while male politicians needn’t do any of those things. Or it could be that women in general really do act differently in this role than men do, and/or that fathers-in-law are just as problematic but in ways our society doesn’t criticize/punish them for. It is worth noting that in my first marriage, my father-in-law was difficult and manipulative, and my mother-in-law was pleasant and friendly—and yet at the time, I blamed her for the issues. In my second marriage, my mother-in-law drove me up a wall but on the other hand my father-in-law had almost nothing to do with us or his grandchildren, except to call every couple of years and try to get us to make him feel better about how bad he felt about being so terrible, so I’d say he was actually much worse. Anyway. Back to the post. I had just finished asking how on earth we were going to avoid being bad mothers-in-law, when presumably no one SET OUT to be a bad mother-in-law and yet many of them WERE.)

I was particularly perplexed by the way my mother-in-law considered herself to be an EXCELLENT mother-in-law. She would tell me about her sister-in-law and what a dreadful time her daughters-in-law had with her, and how lucky I was. How LUCKY I was. Meanwhile I was spending huge portions of her visits DAYDREAMING ABOUT UNTRACEABLE POISONS. When she died unexpectedly (NOT FROM UNTRACEABLE POISON), I was SUFFUSED WITH HAPPINESS!! and I still think of it now from time to time, with happy feelings of relief and luckiness at having been spared. We do not want our sons- and daughters-in-law SUFFUSED WITH HAPPINESS and FEELING RELIEVED AND LUCKY when we die! How how how can we avoid this??

(Well, and it’s not as scary as what I’m working myself up to, here. In-laws are for the most part non-chosen family members, and so it’s normal for them to be, er, not what we’d choose. And yet many of us accept that and adjust to it and cope with it and stay polite and everything is basically fine, and everyone is doing their best to get along, and no one is swooning with delight but also no one is daydreaming about untraceable poisons. I had a particularly bad experience with my mother-in-law, but that’s not the usual. Some in-laws feel friendly toward each other! Some of them even love each other devotedly! Some prefer their in-laws to their own actual family members! But it’s understandable that we would worry about the less-favorable outcomes and hope to do what we can to prevent them.)

One problem is that the whole situation is EXTREMELY DEPENDENT on the personality combinations involved. That is, I am willing to conceive of a person who might have married Paul and found his mother delightful. His mother did not like me very much, and our personalities were not a good match; some of her most aggravating qualities might not have been brought out at all if she’d had a different sort of daughter-in-law, or might have been brought out but not perceived as aggravating, or might have been perceived as aggravating but then swiftly and decisively dealt with. There could be areas where neither of us were at fault: our personalities just didn’t work out well together.

But also, my mother-in-law really was an oblivious and difficult person. That is, I can write some of this off as personality conflicts, no one’s fault, etc., but she was the kind of person who, with a topic as minor as “how to cook taco meat,” thought of there as being one Right Way (her way) and a whole bunch of Stupid Ways—not DIFFERENT ways but STUPID ways. She would tell stories about other people (often they were pointed stories about how those people did something I happened to also do), and she’d roll her eyes and make scoffing sounds about any decisions that were different than hers, and she’d say “It was just so STUPID!,” and make closing remarks like “Well, but they didn’t ask me!” as if that made her a reasonable, accepting person resigned to her fate as Cassandra, always right but never consulted/believed.

My hope is that we are starting from a place where we already know not to do this. And that as we get older, we will remain aware that there are many different right ways to live a life, and that those ways suit different people, and that two people can live very differently indeed (even including the way they cook taco meat) and still both be living the Right Way for them. And that we will able to apply that point of view to our daughters- and sons-in-laws as broadly and lovingly and supportively as we would want our mothers- and fathers-in-law to apply it to us. And that we can try not to be actively difficult people. And that our children will not bring actively difficult people into our lives. This is a lot of hopes.

I share your worry about getting a son-in-law or daughter-in-law who actively badmouths me to my child and turns my child against me. Basically I am worried I will get the same thing in a daughter/son-in-law that I had in a mother-in-law: someone who thinks there is one Right way to do things and all the other ways (definitely including mine) are Stupid, and that this should be regularly and scoffingly pointed out to my child until he/she agrees and scorns me for it. I guess this means I am hoping I have children who grow up understanding that just because they prefer to do things a certain way doesn’t mean preferring to do things a different way is stupid/wrong/gross/bad. And that if my children DO understand that, they will not be as likely to link their lives to people who think otherwise. Though attraction is a marvel, and makes all kinds of combinations happen.

Another concern I have is that the very ways we consider ourselves delightfully Not Difficult could be THE VERY THINGS that drive our children and their partners up a wall. My mother-in-law considered herself SUCH an easy houseguest, because unlike her parents she didn’t expect us to give up our bed for her—but “giving the guest the best bed in the house” was not a concept I was familiar with in my extended family, so I failed to appreciate her graciousness in not demanding to sleep in my bed. (Also, she mentioned it every time she visited, which made it seem like maybe she DID want us to give up our bed.) And there was a whole interesting category of things where she would say proudly that she didn’t need to be entertained, she didn’t need special meals cooked—but then she did need to be entertained and she did need special meals cooked, it’s just that her idea of entertainment and special cooking were not the same as mine, so what she saw as low-maintenance (she thought everyone should be eating salt-free and low-fat, so it was not special that she needed those kinds of meals) I saw as high-maintenance, and I don’t know if there was any way around that. Or wait, actually I do know the way around that: I think the key may be to avoid bragging about how easy we are, and to avoid assuming we’re easy and delightful.

I worry too because sometimes I see “Can’t Win” talk going on with relationships like these: it’s easy to do it when we don’t like someone or find the relationship difficult (see also: Bitch Eating Crackers). Like, if a mother-in-law visits, she’s a burden and an intrusion; but if she doesn’t, she doesn’t care about her grandchildren and she’s wrong for expecting people to travel to her. If she sends gifts, she’s sending things no one wants, and/or spending either too much or too little, and/or buying things WE wanted to buy the children, and/or buying things we didn’t want the children to have, and so on; if she doesn’t, she doesn’t even care enough to send gifts to her own grandchildren / doesn’t even care enough to mark their special occasions. If she asks for updates/photos, she’s demanding and needy; if she doesn’t, she doesn’t care and isn’t involved. Can’t win. I tried to correct that with my attitude toward my own mother-in-law: if she did something I didn’t like, I’d think “Would I be any happier if she did something else instead, or would I find a way to criticize her no matter what?” This led me to give credit where credit was due: she visited often and was involved with her grandchildren, which was GOOD; she sent gifts and cards and letters, which was GOOD; she was interested in updates and photos, which was GOOD. I’m going to try to remember to apply this also to my future sons- and daughters-in-law, and avoid thinking of them in Can’t Win ways if we don’t happen to like each other very much.

 

Okay, do we have a rough plan here?

1. We can emphasize to our children (and model it in the way we speak of others) that there are different Right Ways to live for different people: that two people can live differently and yet both be living exactly the right way for their own lives.

2. We can try to remember this ourselves as we get older, and not fall into the trap of thinking that younger people need us to tell them how to live exactly like we did/do.

3. We can be aware of the odd dynamics inherent to the whole “building family out of people who didn’t used to be family” concept, and expect to need to do our share to make these relationships go smoothly, and not panic if the relationships aren’t all great ones. We can hope that our children will bring dear good nice people into our lives, but we can focus on hoping our children will find the people who are right for THEM, not right for US.

4. We can try to be Not Difficult, and to avoid the common pitfalls (being critical, being intrusive, giving too much unasked-for input, scoffing at new developments and saying “We didn’t do things like that in MY day and we all survived!”), but not assume that we are succeeding, and not brag that we are succeeding.

5. In situations where personalities are not a delightful fit, we can do our part to make sure we are not putting our sons- and daughters-in-law into Can’t Win situations where we manage to think of them poorly no matter what they do. We can hope they will do the same for us.

6. We can hope that our fretfulness and anxiety on this topic already puts us ahead of the people who plow into this assuming they’re the best mothers-in-law ever and that their daughters- and son-in-law can’t WAIT to hear wise instructions on how they should run their lives in every detail.

 

More things to add to the list? Some of you are mothers-in-law already, and I hope you will tell us everything you know, everything you’ve learned, everything you’re doing. Some of you may have active mother-in-law situations going on right now, situations that are giving you lots of ideas of things to do differently when it’s your turn, and I hope you will tell us all of those ideas.

Commenting Problems Update (Personal Blog Edition)

An update on the commenting problem is that it’s not fixed and it looks as if it never will be—unless it suddenly and unexpectedly resolves because of some software update or whatever. If you’re having trouble commenting, either persistently or intermittently, know that you’re not alone: I am still getting plenty of emails and Twitter comments about it. We can’t seem to fix it. (I still can’t comment on MY OWN BLOGS unless I’m replying to someone else’s comment from the dashboard.) We have repeatedly contacted the web host. Paul is a computer guy and has repeatedly investigated/tinkered. I have gone into the commenting settings and tried to change things that might help.

Nothing helps, and we can’t even find a pattern: last time I wrote about this, I asked for feedback that Paul could use to diagnose the issue or to help the web host diagnose it—but there was no pattern. Some people could comment from their desktop computers but not from their phones; other people had the opposite issue. Some people could comment as long as they went to the site directly, but not if they followed a link (like from Twitter/Facebook); other people had the opposite issue. Some people could comment on the regular blog but not on the baby names blog; other people had the opposite issue. Some people could comment before, but now can’t; others couldn’t comment before, but now can.

It is discouraging and disheartening and maddening. All I can do is advise you to try what is working for other people: a different browser, phone/desktop instead of desktop/phone, link/direct instead of direct/link. I really am holding out hope that there will be some update on the host or on WordPress or something, and that’ll turn out to be the missing piece that fixes it all.