Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Do Mothers-in-Law Deserve a Punch in the Face?

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mother-in-law

(Featured on The Huffington Post Fifty on July 9, 2015)

I don’t want to incite trouble between the Mommy Bloggers and the Midlife Bloggers, although that would be grand fun, but I’m feeling a bit defensive about all the mother-in-law bashing. One of my favorite websites is Scary Mommy and the contributing writers are witty, provocative, and sassy. However, many of them dislike the mothers of their husbands. Well, (snort!), maybe these young gals aren’t clones of The Queen of Sheba, either.

Scary Mommy attracts more than a million readers and claims to be “a parenting community for imperfect parents.” The site includes several delightful and informative pages that engage young women, and the topics include pregnancy, step-parenting, children, health, and travel. As a young mother, I needed this resource but the Internet wasn’t even around when I was dealing with babies, sore boobs, and projectile vomiting. I had to learn the hard way that kids were noisy, messy, demanding snot-producers who steal your heart and sometimes stomp on it.

The Scary Mommy relationship page includes a listing titled “In Laws.” One article titled “15 Mother-in-Law Behaviors that Deserve a Punch in the Face” received more than 7,000 shares on Facebook. The page almost drips with spittle and hostility mingled with a few comical jokes. Another page titled “Confessional” invites anonymous comments that can be rated in three categories: like, hug, or me, too. Here is a recent example:

“I swear if my MIL died I would have to pretend to be devastated. That would solve 99 percent of my marriage problems! Please, oh, please let her die!” That remark earned 15 favorable marks. Obviously, if the writer’s mother-in-law is aware of the comment, she should retire to a secret, gated community and change her will.

I belong to several groups of midlife bloggers, but the group’s websites don’t contain any pages that criticize or publicly embarrass our daughters-in-law. We just don’t do it. Mostly, we’re grateful that our sons grew up, learned how to change their underwear, and traded their Legos for love.

After all the admonishments about how mothers-in-law should behave, it’s my duty to offer some tidbits in exchange. Here are my suggestions for how to be the daughter-in-law who doesn’t deserve to be punched in the face.

1. I am not a mother-in-law joke. I adore my son, and if you and my son are fortunate to have children who carry my genes you’ll know why mothers remain profoundly invested in their kids. Our Mother Bear instincts don’t shut off when they grow up and leave their toys, dirty socks, and moms behind.

2. I deserve respect. I’m sorry your mama didn’t teach you to respect your elders, but I’m the one who taught your husband how to use a toilet. He chose you, and I come along as a bonus prize. If I want to come over, open the damn door and offer me a glass of wine.

3. You children sense your mocking attitude. When you complain about me in front of your kids, they imagine that I really do have horns, eat live toads, and ride a broom. I got over those behaviors years ago.

4. My unsolicited advice could be helpful. I’ve been around the block a few times and know where to avoid the piles of dog poop. Learn from my mistakes.

5. Communicate before all hell breaks loose. A little irritant can get blown out of proportion, so let’s have a conversation with you, my son, and me. This meeting shouldn’t involve weapons, lawyers, or reality television.

6. Laugh with me. If you think I’m critical of your cooking, clothes, home, or pedigree, just laugh and remind me that you’re comfortable with your life and habits, and I don’t need to mention them again. Then open more wine. We have much to appreciate about each other.

I’m extremely grateful to have a positive, loving relationship with my daughter-in-law and son-in-law. They love my children, and they don’t mind including me in their family activities. One of these days, we’ll perform a three-generation show that includes a song for everyone as we channel our best Aretha Franklin, shake our booties, and sing:
R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me! I got to have (just a little bit). A little respect (just a little bit.) Sing along now.

Jolly Jaunts on the Mother-Daughter Journey

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 Featured on The Huffington Post 50, March 23, 2015.

emily purple hair

My daughter has purple hair, colorful tattoos, and she teaches physical and mental health to her loyal clients. I have thin hair, gnarly age spots, and I tell jokes until people snort beer from their noses. Though we have varied techniques of pleasing our intended audiences, we guarantee customer satisfaction and life isn’t boring.

My son and I are solid as a granite mountain with no drama or surprises. We understand each other and always have connected in a slap-stick “I got your back” sort of comedy skit. My daughter and I have shared the peaks and valleys of life with more volatility than a game of fetch with a junkyard dog. At least we’ve passed the wretched teenage years when she would wail, “Stop looking at me!”

elaine emily maui

If mothers can survive their daughters during puberty, the rest is close to perfection. My daughter and I have traveled together on journeys that define our lives. When she was 11, I took her on a business trip to Chicago and we attended one of the first productions of “Les Miserables.” She knew the score from memory and we laughed together at the raunchy song “Master of the House” and sobbed like babies during “Bring Him Home.”

During college, she lived for a year in Guanajuato, Mexico. I visited her and gasped with pain at her living conditions, mainly because there were 90 steps up to her one-room apartment. She lived alone and didn’t have a stove, heater, or laundry facilities, but she thrived in her new adventure. We experienced a grand time touring the sites, buying fresh flowers and fruit from the local market, and guzzling cool beer at Bar Ocho. In that year, I let go and she matured and blossomed.

Other trips included a six-country tour of Europe with her high school class and a 12-day train odyssey across Canada with my mother. For her 22nd birthday, she was my guest as I hosted a university alumnae tour through Spain. We escaped for two days, rented a car, and drove to the Costa del Sol on the Mediterranean. She spoke fluent Spanish, so the trip was less complicated. After that, we shared a hike on a rugged, 3-day excursion across the Haleakela volcano field in Maui, Hawaii. She led a group of women who slept in tents, cooked over an open fire, and gazed through tears at the brilliant stars. Life with her became one continuous adventure.

e and emily cabin

As a reward for graduating from college with scholastic honors, I gave her a round-trip, week-long ticket to Hawaii. She didn’t return as planned. She found several jobs to support herself, including working on a tourist boat. One of her responsibilities was to free-dive into the ocean to set the anchor. She did that until a blood vessel burst in her eye. She started a woman’s hiking business and escorted tours across volcano fields and through rain forests. Then she was hired to teach at the Waldorf School on Maui. I wish there were such amazing schools for my grandkids in Idaho. Seven years after going to Hawaii on a week’s trip, she returned with a husband and a baby. Now she colors her hair purple for a fun, creative flair, and she’s the reason I have so much gray hair than I need to dye it brown.

We’re now on another excursion to a writing retreat on Maui. This time, it’s different. I’m recovering from knee surgery, I’m slower, and I have no desire to hike anything beyond two steps into a wine bar. After I lost my boarding pass, she gently took over as tour guide, and I was grateful. The changing of roles is unplanned but necessary. Without her help, I’d still be wandering around the San Francisco airport and she’d be on a Hawaiian beach happily sucking a Mai Tai. I’m secretly one of her biggest fans.

During a recent conversation, we reminisced about the passing of my mother. I carefully approached the subject of her role as my designated Power of Attorney for Health Care. I emphasized that I did not want to live without independence. She soothed my worries with her honest reply: “Don’t worry, Mom. If you’re ever on life support I’ll pull the plug.”

She loves me, too.