Updated: April 24, 2020
Originally Published: November 24, 2005
It may sound trivial, but I once experienced a complete meltdown over a set of ramekins. However, this isn’t merely a tale about kitchenware or my peculiar attachment to objects; it’s a narrative about stress, family dynamics, and the complexities of marriage.
Navigating my new family was no easy task, and I quickly realized that I had to let go of some expectations. Spending extended periods with anyone means riding the emotional roller coaster of their moods. My mother-in-law is like an amusement park, full of highs and lows. I once politely declined her offer of tea, which led to a week of chilly silence. Another time, when I revealed that I don’t eat pork, I was later served a mystery meat smothered in gravy and assured it was turkey. Spoiler alert: it was not. We danced a delicate waltz around each other, circling like boxers in a ring.
Over the years, we settled into a mutual disdain. She often referred to me in the third person, while I cleverly used my children as a shield to deflect her comments. We managed to coexist in a state of almost civility until the fateful two-week visit shortly after my youngest son was born. Sleep-deprived and battling a stubborn case of thrush for both myself and the baby, I was not in the best place for a visit from my in-laws. Yet, as they say, hell hath no fury like a grandmother denied her grandchild.
Had this been a short weekend visit, perhaps I could have maintained my dignity. Unfortunately, my in-laws traveled from England, and they intended to make every moment count.
Trouble began four days into their stay:
Mother-in-law: “Is Jessica OK? She looks a bit pale.”
Me: (standing a foot and a half away) “I’m fine. Just my complexion.”
Mother-in-law: “I thought Jessica wanted to be a writer. I haven’t seen her book on any shelves.”
Me: “Well, I did just have a baby.”
Mother-in-law: “I know Jessica said she didn’t want her 2-year-old eating sweets, but grandparenting is about indulging, right?”
Me: (clenching my teeth and quietly walking away)
I found plenty of excuses to escape, often claiming the need to nurse the baby or take a quick nap, sometimes resulting in me hiding in my room binge-watching mindless television.
One day, I emerged from a nap only to discover my kitchen entirely rearranged. My groceries were gone, replaced by new ones. How long had I been asleep? The eye twitch began. As I pulled plates from cabinets and dumped the jumbled contents of my utensil drawers onto the counter, I spotted it: the dish that pushed me over the edge.
There it was, one of my cherished, imported-from-Paris ramekins, filled with wet dog food. It didn’t matter that we didn’t feed our dogs canned food; I couldn’t focus on that. All I could see was red.
I had previously shared just how special these dishes were to me, even arguing that they were not meant for everyday use and should never, under any circumstances, see the inside of a dishwasher. To keep them safe, I had hidden them on the top shelf of the highest cabinet. My mother-in-law, standing at just under five feet, somehow found them. How could this happen?!
In that moment, rational thought escaped me. I snatched the dish and began to wash it furiously. With postpartum hormones, sleep deprivation, and unbridled rage, the ramekin slipped from my hands and shattered against the sink.
In that instant, I felt like I had lost everything: my dish, my kitchen, and my sanity. I collapsed on the kitchen floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Between a demanding newborn, a relentless yeast infection, an attention-starved toddler, and a meddling mother-in-law, that ramekin represented the last shred of control I had. And now it lay in pieces.
When my husband and his parents returned from the park, they found me on the floor, muttering about dog food and broken dishes. My husband quickly led me to the bathroom, and once I calmed down enough to explain, he laughed. Really? That was it? At that moment, I wanted to punch him, but in hindsight, it was exactly what I needed to hear. They were just dishes, and my in-laws were merely visiting. My house was still mine, and my life was still intact. The dogs could go on a diet. The only real loss was a piece of glass.
I wish I could say I emerged from the bathroom a wiser, more enlightened person. Unfortunately, I lingered there another 15 minutes before creeping back into the kitchen to rearrange everything. Once the kitchen looked pristine again, I finally felt a sense of relief. I even resisted the urge to prepare vindictive soufflés for dinner, one for everyone except her.
Regrettably, I must confess that I haven’t touched my beloved ramekins since that debacle. I thought of them today as I prepare for my in-laws’ annual visit next week. Now, a year postpartum and feeling much more rested, I’m hopeful I’ll handle the next round of family chaos with greater grace. I suspect even the Beatles were less demanding houseguests. Just to be safe, I boxed up the remaining three ramekins and tucked them away in my closet—just in case.
For more relatable experiences on parenting and family dynamics, check out this other blog post. And if you’re looking for resources on family planning, you might want to look into this great option for at-home insemination kits, or visit Progyny for more helpful information.
Summary
In this humorous yet relatable account, Jessica Thompson shares her chaotic experience of dealing with her mother-in-law during a stressful time in her life. The story highlights the challenges of family interactions, personal boundaries, and the importance of maintaining one’s sense of control amidst the chaos of new parenthood.
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