My mother-in-law could easily win gold in the Olympics for stubbornness. Her knack for meddling is truly a talent, and thanks to her constant skirmishes, my husband Tom and I have found tranquillity to be something akin to an endangered species in our home. Despite her heartwarming disapproval, we had no choice but to live with her after the wedding a family situation that I can only describe as temporary, though it felt rather endless.
Now, our regular family pastime involved traipsing through hedges and brambles in the wild British countryside, foraging for blackberries and sloes apparently for her legendary preserves. Any fruit left over was never spotted again in our own kitchen; I suspect the local foxes got more than we did.
Initially, these berry expeditions were reserved for weekends. I had work commitments, and generally preferred my own bed to a patch of nettles. But once our baby arrived, my role expanded I was on early morning berry duty nearly every day. My mother-in-law (lets call her Brenda you simply cant make Brenda budge) insisted that the earlier we went, the juicier the berries, ignoring the fact that the woods were a sauna by noon, crammed with midges, mud, and questionable mushrooms. All the best finds were stashed in Brendas freezer, guarded like the Crown Jewels.
Tensions finally boiled over when Tom tried discussing our finances with her we needed a bit of help. Predictably, this ended with a family row, after which Brenda retaliated with the most gloriously stingy meat soup a broth so thin you could see your reflection if you gazed down into it. Feeling a bit wounded (and starved), I locked myself in the bathroom for a little cry.
Eventually, we rented our blessed own flat honestly, it was like winning the lottery (in pounds sterling, naturally). Life became much calmer, and our spirits lifted. We still visit Brenda on occasion, though Ive adopted the British classic of no, thank you to her tea, just to make a point (silent, but not at all subtle). She, I suspect, knows exactly why, but in true Brenda fashion pretends not to notice.
So, what do you think of this daughter-in-law and mother-in-law ballet? Whos in the right here? I have my suspicions, but the great British tradition is to keep calm and carry on possibly without the tea.
