Chapter Seven: In-Laws

Chapter 7:  In-Laws

When you pair up a Jersey girl and a Pennsylvania boy, it’s bound to get interesting. The first time I prepared an authentic Italian meal for Rob, my delicious eggplant parmigiana, he tried to PUT HOT SAUCE ON IT. That was nearly a relationship-breaker. I was incensed. Rob didn’t understand. I said he was defiling the recipe, by adding an ingredient that didn’t belong. He shook his head. He thought that I was nuts. Perhaps. But you cook for those you love, and my show of affection was nearly ruined. We laugh about it now, but he’s never added hot sauce to my specialties since.  

The first time I went to one of Rob’s family functions, there was an array of scrumptious food. His mother truly had a knack in the kitchen. Her significant other was a skilled hunter, as was indicated by numerous deer heads on the wall. There was a jostling, friendly crowd in the house. I’d lost sight of Rob, so I made myself a heaping plate and ambled downstairs to join the party. I was thoroughly enjoying the hearty fare − red skin potatoes, pulled pork, pickled eggs, beef roast, homemade bread and coleslaw. Then I caught a snippet of conversation. Someone said “venison.” I stopped mid-chew and looked up. 

“Venison?”

“Yes, in the crockpot upstairs.”

“Which crockpot?”

“The one with the blue flowers.” GULP.

Rob was chuckling from across the room. So was his mother. 

“Deer meat? You didn’t tell me,” I whined.

“I told you that it was meat, I just didn’t tell you what kind,” he replied with a mischievous grin. “Welcome to Pennsylvania!”

We ended that evening reclining on plush stools at the fully stocked bar downstairs, which was elegantly decorated in mahogany. A bottle of good ole’ country moonshine was presented, for anyone who didn’t want to remember what they had for dinner.         

* * *

My adorable, beautiful nephew Nathan has the cherubic face of an angel coupled with a generous dose of intelligence, creativity and tenacity. While he was visiting us one Christmas, he was at that stage in childhood when the word “no” was not taken easily.

The door between our family room and the garage had a slide lock, which he could reach. This was an endless source of entertainment for Nathan, especially after someone had just gone into the garage.

“Nathan, please don’t lock Uncle Rob in the garage.”

“But I have to,” he replied.

I couldn’t argue with that logic. With a shrug I thought, ah well, Rob can open the garage to get out.

While Nathan was with us, we were privy to other examples of the mind of a three-year old. We found him climbing the shelves of our refrigerator, reaching for chocolate we’d hidden on the top shelf.

“Nathan, get down from there.”

“But I have to.”

“You’ve had too much chocolate. It’s not good for you.”

He replied, “Chocolate IS good for me!”

I wondered how many dieters had uttered those same words.

Another day, my teen daughter was asleep and Nathan had the run of the house. She found the dog locked in his metal crate, looking miserable.

My daughter was puzzled, “Nathan, did Aunt Camille put the dog in the crate?”

“No. I did!” He was beaming with pride.

“How?”

“I pushed him in.”

We then realized the power of a three-year old. Shnoop our dog outweighed Nathan by forty pounds, yet he was somehow made to go into his cage, in his own house, by a forceful little person with the face of an angel.

The bathroom was another source of fun for my nephew. One night, I realized that he’d been in there too long. I knocked at the door.

“Nathan?”

“Can I have privacy please?” he said.

“What are doing in there?”

“Nothing.” PLOP. I heard something fall into the toilet. I guessed it was either toothpaste or my hairbrush.

“Nathan, what was that?”

“Can I have privacy?”

I applauded my sister for raising such a polite child and was, thus, momentarily swayed from my mission.

“Don’t put anything in the toilet, Nathan. Just pee and poop.”

A small voice replied, “But I have to.”

To which my sister swooped in and took charge. Whew! I’d never want to be known as the aunt who doesn’t give someone their privacy.

  

* * *

My daughter’s father lives in Las Vegas. He has an exciting, and often high-pressure, job as a chef in a famous casino. Two or three times a year, my daughter goes to Las Vegas to visit him.

Anyone who has put his or her child alone on a plane knows the angst that the parent experiences for the entire duration of the flight. Until you hear their voice on the other end of the line, “I’m here! Daddy picked me up at the gate,” you don’t relax or even sleep, even if that call comes at 3 am.

Perhaps, once in your life, there’s the ‘airplane trouble’ call. That’s the call that comes much too early to be good news. 

When my daughter was eleven years old, she called two hours after her flight took off.

“Hi Mom!”

“Where are you?”

“On the plane. The people sitting next to me let me use their phone.”

“Oh my god. Is everything alright?” Mild panic began.

“Oh yeah. We just ran out of fuel. We landed in Nebraska and they’re getting more now.”

Mild panic gave way to debilitating fear.

“You’re in Nebraska?!” I struggled to picture exactly where that state was. Darned Catholic school! I was taking penmanship when I should have been taking geography.

“Didn’t the pilots make sure there was enough fuel before they left?”

“I dunno. Mom, this lady needs her phone back. I gotta go.”

“Don’t get off the plane until you get to Nevada, honey!”

She sighed. “I won’t. Bye, Mom.”

“I love you! And be sure to thank those people!” There is never a wrong time to remind your child to be polite.

My mind raced with awful thoughts. Those people who lent their phone may be the ones who shoved my daughter under a seat as the plane went down. They may be the people who remembered how polite she’d been and that she had a loving mother and they’d share their floatation device as they bobbed in icy waters.

I took a deep breath and silently cursed parenting across the miles.

These cross country trips also went hand-in-hand with more commonplace problems, such as overcrowded airports, weather delays, suitcase dilemmas, jet lag, days missed from school and the inevitable stories about how daddy did things. Our lives paled somewhat in comparison.

Nonetheless, I always enjoyed getting calls from my daughter when she was on those trips.

“Hi Mom.”

“Hi baby! What are you doing today?”

“Grandpa took me on the roller coaster at the top of the Stratosphere casino! Yesterday we went skiing in Mt. Charleston. Today we’re going water-skiing on Lake Havasu and I saw a rap star in the lobby of the Bellagio Hotel!”

“Wow, that’s great!”

“What’s going on there?”

“We’re making egg salad… and we installed a new faucet, with a sprayer! You should see it.”

I knew our suburban life back East couldn’t compete with the excitement of Las Vegas. And that was all right with me. My daughter had the best of both worlds. Thrills with one parent and, with the other, a place to read in a hammock, to color Easter eggs and carve pumpkins. It all balanced out.

* * *