I just Googled the word in-laws, and in addition to the usual Wikipedia hits, here are some of the things that came up:
- Dr. Phil's advice on managing in-laws
- I HATE MY IN-LAWS!!!: In-laws stories
- Ten Basic Rules for Dealing with In-Laws
- Curse of the mummyji (from the Economist, about in-laws in India)
- The weird science of in-laws (from the Boston Globe)
Ouch.
It doesn't get much better when you go to the Online Etymology Dictionary (one of my favorite places online because I am such a word geek). It says the earliest record of brother-in-law is from the thirteenth century, but that by 1894 it had been shortened to in law, meaning "anyone of a relationship not natural." And it shares this quote from Blackwood's Magazine in 1894:
Double ancient ouch.
It's not that I don't get it. I do. I know people (and, no, I will not be naming names) who have in-laws who, shall we say, are not natural. And maybe this is like proclaiming you like Brussels sprouts (guilty) or Barry Manilow (double guilty). But I love my in-laws.
I'll be honest: I can be prickly. (This is the nice word for it. Remember, this is a family blog.) And unconventional. My poor in-laws have had to put up with a lot from me. Homeschooling. A disdain for Disney World (I know, I know) and all things commercial. There are a lot of things we don't see eye-to-eye on, philosophically and otherwise. And I'm pretty much impossible to shop for.
But they ask questions, and they talk to the Poet-Accountant and me openly about our parenting and lifestyle decisions, and though I'm sure there have been times they've been doubtful—maybe even worried—they have never been anything but supportive. And I like to think they think that Ruby Hazelnut's turned out all right—so far at least.
So even if that was all I had to say about my in-laws, that would be enough. I adore them, I appreciate their openness and love more than I can say, and I am eternally grateful to them for their son, who is the most awesome husband and father ever. Period.
But, unbelievably, that's not all.
Twice a year, my glorious, fabulous in-laws whisk Ruby Hazelnut away to Grandparent Camp in Atlanta. For one week in the spring and two weeks in the summer, they go to the American Girl Doll store and the Georgia Aquarium; they visit cousins and take trips to the library; they visit Indian mounds and see plays. It's a grandchild's dream, and I know because I had grandparents like that.
And what does Cranky Rah do, you might ask? She writes. She tells all her friends to pretend like she is dead (or, less violently, out of town), and she writes. All day long. Every day. Every day.
It's a writing retreat I don't have to pay for or leave home for. And though I love and adore Ruby Hazelnut and want her, at some point, to come home, these are awesome, awesome days. They make me a little more human. A little.
Cranky Rah's spring retreat starts Monday. Thank you, Rosa and Eddie.
 |
| The ultimate in-law. |
The position of the 'in-laws' (a happy phrase which is attributed...to her Majesty, than whom no one can be better acquainted with the article) is often not very apt to promote happiness.
Double ancient ouch.
It's not that I don't get it. I do. I know people (and, no, I will not be naming names) who have in-laws who, shall we say, are not natural. And maybe this is like proclaiming you like Brussels sprouts (guilty) or Barry Manilow (double guilty). But I love my in-laws.
But they ask questions, and they talk to the Poet-Accountant and me openly about our parenting and lifestyle decisions, and though I'm sure there have been times they've been doubtful—maybe even worried—they have never been anything but supportive. And I like to think they think that Ruby Hazelnut's turned out all right—so far at least.
So even if that was all I had to say about my in-laws, that would be enough. I adore them, I appreciate their openness and love more than I can say, and I am eternally grateful to them for their son, who is the most awesome husband and father ever. Period.
But, unbelievably, that's not all.
Twice a year, my glorious, fabulous in-laws whisk Ruby Hazelnut away to Grandparent Camp in Atlanta. For one week in the spring and two weeks in the summer, they go to the American Girl Doll store and the Georgia Aquarium; they visit cousins and take trips to the library; they visit Indian mounds and see plays. It's a grandchild's dream, and I know because I had grandparents like that.
And what does Cranky Rah do, you might ask? She writes. She tells all her friends to pretend like she is dead (or, less violently, out of town), and she writes. All day long. Every day. Every day.
It's a writing retreat I don't have to pay for or leave home for. And though I love and adore Ruby Hazelnut and want her, at some point, to come home, these are awesome, awesome days. They make me a little more human. A little.
Cranky Rah's spring retreat starts Monday. Thank you, Rosa and Eddie.
 |
| Where Rah will be in her head next week: following Wren and Ink up into a sycamore tree and their story. |
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