The Ties That Grind

Mothers with Sons vs. Mothers of their Grandchildren, the generational battle over absolutely nothing

The Mother-in-law Daughter-in-law Syndrome emerges when the two female members of the household fail to establish rapport, resulting in tension that detrimentally impacts the overall home atmosphere. While such issues have historically existed, they have become even more conspicuous in today’s evolving times (Greater Kashmir)

I have had a few too many palomas (grapefruit juice and tequila), but not before cooking four meals and doing three loads of dishes, one load of laundry and taking the kids to music class.

I work two jobs and dog/cat sit on the side. The best part of my day is falling asleep because this is the moment when a weight is lifted off my shoulders.

Now, I am finding my Chihuahua’s thumper, watching a Kevin Costner film called Let Him Go, and reflecting on this toxic dynamic of MILs (Mother-in-Laws) and Moms.

A friend relayed research done on why MILS are so resentful to mothers and wives of their sons: because they provide their son with the one thing they can’t — sex.

While I don’t know whether or not it’s true, I’ve dated men who took me to family dinners, and carefully watched how the mother with a baby is treated at the dinner table: like a whiney servant. All the while, their son (the father) doesn’t lift a finger and is still worshipped. “Do you need more food?”

Michelle Obama says, “We love our boys, but we raise our girls.”

The Mother-in-Love, The Constant

There were two people at both my children's births: the father (same dude) and his mother.

My mother was on a cruise with my father both times. No idea where my sister was: the first birth she was scared when I was taken into emergency surgery but I have no idea about her whereabouts during the second birth.

When my MIL (Mother-in-Love) spoke to the doctors and referred to me as her daughter, my heart fluttered.

I wanted to be her daughter so badly, and be loved as she loves her son.

But as the first child grew and the second child came, I jokingly referred to myself as “Milk Sacks” on family outings. I was not there as a human or a pet: I was just the food cooler and the easiest way to placate the babies.

It was definitely reductive in human ego and self-esteem, but also totally unnecessary.

The father of both my kids and his mother did participate in the children's lives — but not without making me feel like my body and mind were entirely irrelevant to anyone else’s cares.

This was compounded by my own family who didn’t want to spend too much time in our company.

My mind, my heart and my very soul are pure when I say, “I need a mother.”

My mother. His mother. I need A mother.

There is no one.

And while I feel like I am spun into a vixen, a “stupid bitch”, a “narcissist”, or as poignantly phrased by Nana, a “crazy broad”, I knew my kids were healthy and happy, at least partly because of me.

This earns me no respect. Not with the father of my children, not with his mother, not my mother, and not potential suitors.

One ex-boyfriend says, “I love everything about you, but what I respect the most is you have raised happy kids.”

This will forever be my favorite compliment.

This beautiful contribution to the world garnishes zero respect from people in my inner circle.

And in Let It Go, Diane Lane sets out to save her grandson when her son's widow is forced, or presumably so, to marry someone who is publicly abusive to her and her toddler son.

Lane offers to take the son, without extending the offer to the mother. The mother reminds her MIL that children need their mothers. She reframes the offer to include her.

My sister, when confronted with the news of immigrants separated from their children at the border, suggested Mexican children be adopted out to American women — with no mention of honoring a reunion with their birth mom.

The most important thing you, as the reader, can remember is no one will be better, safer, healthier and more loving to their child than their mother.

There are outliers, of course. Casey Anthony adorns the headlines because it is so delicious to believe a woman would carelessly kill her child for a night of debauchery. It is quite rare. (As naïve as you may think I am, I believe Anthony lives with incredible guilt.)

Most mothers would risk their lives for their kids, more so than a foster parent or a politician or an estranged family member — and I am no exception. Whatever people know of my past, my pain, my politics, the truth is I would sacrifice myself for my children.

So why is it so hard for grandmothers to remember and respect?

What I know about the two matriarchs of my small family is both suffered extreme criticism from their MILS. His mother is blamed for his father’s fatal heart attack. My mother was criticized for being Catholic, overweight, an outsider.

Instead of breaking the cycle, they merrily reignite it with me. I find it very low brow and silly when they both know I hold the family together and, somehow, have sheltered my daughters from poverty and homelessness with no help from them.

Every glass of wine or bottle of beer is carefully watched. And as unforgiving as they are to alcoholic and drug addicts (I am not one but I prefer to be buzzed at family gatherings), they should take a hard look at their adrenaline and cortisol addiction. When stressed, the brain releases a hormone cocktail. If you grow up amidst stress, your brain becomes wired around that chemical release, much like an addict.

In an effort to break the cycle, I identified my own toxic patterns, employ two therapists and religiously attend group therapy to keep me in check and away from toxic relationships and stress/drama.

I forgive them for being unenlightened, despite the fact they show no grace to other addicts exploited by their sacred television sets.

Women need to treat each other better. I am determined to hold women of my generation to a higher standard.

This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius.

Let the sunshine in.

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