Don’t Let the Truth Get in the Way of a Good Bitchin’
My former mother-in-law was only happy when she was complaining
“God won’t love the baby, but we’ll love him anyway.”
It should have been warning of things to come, of a rocky relationship with my future mother-in-law — Grandma B. But, I assumed once we were married, things would settle.
They didn’t settle.
Two weeks after a celebrant performed the marriage ceremony, a couple of Seventh-Day Adventists dropped by with an invitation for my husband. He was cordially invited to a local singles shindig to find a church-approved wife.
“What the hell?” he asked Grandma B as he paced about the house, trying to keep in range of cordless telephone base. “I’ve made my position clear. I’ve left the church.” Then he roared, “AND I’M NOT SINGLE, I’M MARRIED.”
Back then, you could still slam the phone down with a satisfying clunk, so that’s precisely what he did.
In her eyes, any marriage not performed in a church was not legitimate. Grandma B was nothing if not an unapologetic advocate for her God and church — the fact that she herself chose which church teachings she would apply to herself and which she would ignore was an insignificant detail.
Regardless of Grandma B’s apparent prejudice towards me and my heathen marriage, there was a family tradition I was determined to carry on. Every Wednesday, rain, hail, or shine, I took my son to visit Grandma B.
“My mother would brew up an argument; she’d sit there and let it simmer all afternoon. By the time I walked in the door, it was World War III. You didn’t even need to be home for the trouble to start.”
Grandma B laughed like she was sitting in the front row seat at a Comedy Gala instead of sitting on her couch holding her grandson. Did she realize the irony of that statement? That she’d just painted a picture of her own actions.
Without pausing to take a breath, she changed tack, “So where is that son of mine? Never comes and visits his mum.”
Exasperated-Sandi wanted to snap back, “Well, is it any wonder? When he does come, you bitch and moan that he never visits. Two abnormally long hours last time. It feels like time freezes when you start one of your rants. And then you know there’s the whole singles invitation shemozzles that you cooked up to cause trouble.”
Instead, ever-so-polite-Sandi murmured, “He’s not well.”
I am stubborn and determined. When I make my mind up, that’s it; it’s like Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, and I’ve locked my decision in. As a teenager, I’d watched my Aunt Jennifer visit my Gran every week. It had been one of the highlights of the week for my Gran. I’d made the decision then, that I too, would visit my future mother-in-law regularly — make sure she had a relationship with her grandchildren. I just never figured I’d get stuck with a literal mother-in-law from hell.
Telling myself I had the high moral ground, I put up with Grandma B and her Wednesday tirades for four years. After a while, they seemed to blend into one another, and I developed a habit of writing my library assignments in my head as she ranted and raved.
The straw that broke the camel’s back was only a bump in the road. An extra person had been invited to Christmas lunch. No one told us that Len would be coming, so naturally, we didn’t have a present for him. Len, however, had a token present for us. It should have been a moment of awkwardness, a few red cheeks before it was glossed over. But Grandma B never brushed anything under the carpet. Grandma B continued to bring up the saga for the next three months.
One Wednesday, I’d had enough. I got on my soapbox and told my husband that he now held sole responsibility for dealing with his mother.
My mother chortled after hearing the news, “She’s never going to put up with that. She’ll be knocking on your door in no time.”
But Grandma B's presence did not darken my doorway. Instead, I heard that she was busy talking up a storm via my sister-in-law. My position of favorite daughter-in-law plummeted to an all-time low. On the popularity graph, I was sitting beneath the devil himself. I was the wicked heathen who was keeping her grandchild from her. Information she told anyone and everyone freely, regardless of their interest in listening.
When my husband and I announced we were getting a divorce, my mother predicted that Grandma B would be around in a flash to rant until I saw the error of my ways. Once again, my mother was wrong. Instead, Grandma B launched her attack with stealth. I received numerous phone calls and visits from church members trying to “fix” my marriage.
The breath of fresh air in all this turmoil was Grandpa B. On the first day we’d met, he confessed that he’d originally immigrated to Australia to escape Grandma B rather than go through a messy divorce. But she followed him, leaving him no option. I’d instantly liked this kind, gentle soul.
Grandpa B was consistently inconsistent. It never mattered to him that I was no longer married to his son — I was the mother of his grandchild. Grandpa B would turn up out of the blue and spend the afternoon with my son. Boating, bike riding, movies, or just hanging out. Occasionally he’d turn up three weekends in a row, and then we wouldn’t see him again for six months. While Grandma B was busy bitching, Grandpa B built a relationship with his grandson.
We’ve all ranted, blown off some steam. It’s like a pressure valve. But there is a difference between blowing off steam and people who focus on situations that cause angst — like negative feelings are feeding their souls. Grandma B’s pattern of constant reinforcement of negativity in her life became so entrenched that she needed something to bitch about to be happy. This habit was as ingrained and as natural to Grandma B as breathing.
The situation fueled Grandma B’s negativity for years. She’d spin stories on how I kept her from her grandchild. But not once, not in person, telephone, by letter, or even through family members did she make any attempt to contact my son. There were no birthday or Christmas cards in the mail. If she’d made this effort and I’d rebuked her, maybe her complaints would be legitimate. But she never tried. She was too busy complaining to see what she was missing out on.
A real relationship with her grandson.
When viewing a situation in hindsight, the solution, often blind to us at the time, becomes clear. But I don’t have any regrets. I know I did my best — although I often wonder why I stuck it out with my Wednesday visits for so long.
I do sometimes wonder if continued exposure to such a toxic person might have tainted the compassionate adult my son is today. Instead, my son enjoyed a loving relationship with both my Gran and Grandpa B. They were the grandparents he needed, ones who loved him unconditionally and enjoyed simply spending time with him.
As an adult, my son isn’t interested in pursuing a relationship with Grandma B — he hasn’t seen her for years.
Grandma B’s negativity created a self-fulfilling prophecy.
