I love my Brad. I love him because he makes me laugh and I love him because he is every bit the good dad I always thought he would be. I love him so much that I usually don't comment on his dreadful Yankee family. But today, those people have gone too far. They ruined my Super Bowl.
Buncha jerks.
Super Bowl is a holiday at our house. It's the one school night of the year that I serve junk food for dinner and everyone stays up as late as they want. We have chips and dip and cheeses and meatballs and those little wienies and caramel apple dip and mac and cheese and crab dip and bacon and cookies and beer and soda. Just the three of us. It's the only holiday that we don't have to make something and traipse across town to someone else's house for pot luck. Super Bowl is mine, all mine, and I do not appreciate it being taken from me.
Sadly, one of Brad's nephews has a birthday in February. Brad's sister and parents tend to think the rest of the human race is as enamored with that unfortunate creature as they are. And today we have a command performance to come and celebrate the anniversary of that child's birth. Even though there is a game on.
I hate them. It is mutual.
Even so, I spent my morning wrapping Christmas presents for his parents. They did not want to see us in December, electing instead to visit Thomas Jefferson's estate. Again. In lieu of seeing their only son and granddaughter, they mailed checks. Mine came in a card that was signed only with their first names. No "Merry Christmas" or "Love," or "Happy New Year." Just their first names. Which I'm pretty sure means, "Cash this quickly because if we find out that our son has finally taken our advice and left you we will stop payment." Fair enough, because every year I totally scour stores looking for a Mother's Day card to send her from Sweetpea that says something like, "Happy Mother's Day. I hope it does not rain." or something equally vague.
I bought the nephew a gift card. And this morning, I did my dutiful rounds, shoving the birthday card in front of Brad and Sweetpea for their signatures. Sweetpea asked me if she should write her last name. I told her I didn't care, just please use her best handwriting because they will be grading her. Brad wrote "Uncle Brad" and drew a smiley face. I wrote my first name. I feel awful, disliking a child, but I cannot find one redeeming quality in that kid. He's violent, he's unattractive and he's good at math. The math thing is almost cool, except he'll probably spend his teenage years developing computer viruses.
As for me, I am armoring myself with the only tools I have: cosmetics and clothes. Eyeliner is not going to help, but I'll feel better if I give them less to criticize. I've carefully chosen my outfit: jeans and a cardigan. Brad's mother and sister will give me a thorough look as soon as I get there. If I look too nice, they'll make some dig about how it must be nice to buy so many things for myself. If I look too casual, they'll ask me if I slept in my clothes. No matter what I wear, Brad's dad is going to ask me if I'm keeping my weight off. I am. Not that he is.
These are not nice people. They have no friends and none of their relatives speak to them. They are mean to my husband and my child. I often ask Brad if he remembers any other kids at his house when he was little because I know they weren't allowed to have friends over. He says no, but I wonder if there were other siblings, and maybe Brad and his sister were just the strongest ones.
And at the end of the day, when we're back at home catching whatever is left of the game, I know I'm going to love my husband a little bit more, for getting out of that OCD, ADD, A-S-S-H-O-L-E house and growing into the good man that he is today. Until then, I'll be the quiet blonde wearing muted colors in the corner, humming "We Shall Overcome."
No comments:
Post a Comment