To Grandmother's House

Beren deMotier * writer * artist * human

To Grandmother’s House We Go

Over a river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go…

Next week in fact. Though our voyage will take us straight up the I-5 corridor through rain, holiday weekend traffic and past wet fields dotted with sodden steer.

And when we get there Friday night, we will be engulfed in a cocoon of grandparently enthusiasm. Our kids, waking from their driving-induced slumber will come alive at the idea of Grandma! Grandpa! And all those excellent toys and videos they stock in grandchild heaven. Grandma will pick them up, shake them about, get down on the floor with them, and ask them (with all the attention of a well-paid therapist) about everything going on in their lives. Grandpa, after the initial greetings, will ask about our drive, how our new car is working out, are we hungry? Then he’ll tell us about all the meals he’s got planned for the weekend, when Grandma is working, and ask whether my wife would like to go to the store with him because he forgot to get the rocky road ice cream. Somewhere in there Grandma will have gone off to her bedroom and come back with a plastic bag filled with either junior-sized sweatpants, or a dress for our daughter, maybe a gross of socks or even a Lego building set. Just something she picked up she’ll say with a good-natured grin, her eyes twinkling, knowing we think our children are spoiled enough as it is.

And that’s just the first twenty minutes.

How things have changed.

Whereas now they cannot wait to see our kids, initially they weren’t sure we should be having them, period.

When my spouse and I first got together, we were worlds apart. She was a nice girl, a sporting type, very close and interconnected to her family. She’d never brought home anyone; boyfriend, girlfriend, nada. After a very brief courtship, she came out by bringing me home to meet the folks.

I had already been out for three years, was not a nice girl, and by the time I walked into their suburban living room replete with crystal stemware and colonial furniture I was well ensconced in the subculture, from cowboy boots to leather jacket, from flat top fade to attitude.

Heck, we were twenty-two.

We were a cautionary tale of opposites attract. Probably still are, though the hair is a respectable shoulder length now and the boots are saved for wearing under long skirts. To church for example.

But back then, needless to say her parents weren’t overjoyed with the news that their daughter was not only a lesbian (she said) but that she’d brought over this alarming young girl for their approval. And then continued to bring her over for every holiday, family occasion and casual Sunday drop-over ever since.

To their credit, they never considered disavowing her, throwing me out, or being openly rude. But they weren’t exactly enthused either. Her father has a live and let live philosophy. He may not have been happy with the situation, but it was her life. Her mother expressed her displeasure in subtle ways, such as suggesting at large family functions that my wife was secretly engaged to a male friend, giving us two coffee makers for Christmas (just in case) and asking us not to tell anyone in the extended family. And my wife, being young, went along with all this. We went to endless gatherings knowing that as kindly as they were, they really didn’t want us to be together and would have quietly celebrated had I fulfilled their expectations and rapidly decamped.

So, when after four years together, we decided to have a baby, we didn’t have the greatest hopes for their response.

Which was good. When we arrived in their sunny kitchen one early March day to tell them we were thinking about it, they were underwhelmed by the idea. Something to the effect of “why would you want to do that?” was their initial reaction. And when we finally blurted out that we were already pregnant, and that I was having the baby, they didn’t offer any congratulations. Only concerns.

And it hurt.

They were scared, naturally. How did they know I wasn’t just using their daughter to get what I wanted? (Little did they know how long it had taken her to persuade me to have a baby in the first place!) How did they know I wouldn’t have the baby and then take off? This was nine years ago and the legal prospects for non-biological parents weren’t good. Luckily we’d done our homework. We already had an appointment to make wills, and to start my wife’s adoption of our baby.

They did their best to get used to the idea. Grandma and Grandpa put in a jolly appearance at the baby shower, full of joking references to my enlarged condition and speculation as to the identity of our anonymous donor.

But when our son was born, our relationship was shaken. I’m not the most easy-going person to begin with (to put it very mildly), but when he was born my paranoia reached new heights and my life as a “Safety Queen” had begun. Suddenly my in-laws house seemed like a pit of danger (as did the entire world) and I wasn’t afraid to tell them so, and doubtless not in the best of ways.

Equally, our child rearing methods were a source of their displeasure. They belong to the era of bottles, and cribs and naptimes timed to the microsecond. That neither of our children ate anything but breast milk (and often) until after one, slept with us, were never put down, and rarely babysat seemed weird to them. Which they weren’t afraid to tell us.

And while they may have been threatened by our “lifestyle”, I was equally threatened by them. I was incredibly insecure about being a mother, at first. My wife’s mom is a super-mom. A woman who has dedicated her entire life to her children. She could run a home with her hands tied behind her back. On top of that, she’s genuinely great with kids, and a naturally playful person, something I seriously lack.

Yet we are basically very alike she and I. We are women who want desperately to have a stable, safe and wholesome home life, despite unstable beginnings.

It was later, when we had gotten more comfortable with each other, and she knew I wasn’t trying to judge her, that she admitted that she was crazy trying to do it all when her three kids were small. That the house could have been dirtier, her husband could have done more, that the world would not have stopped if she had actually lain down when she was sick.

I’m beginning to realize this as well...

Our life is in many ways a testament to the good job they did raising my wife. While we have our own way of doing things, our basic family structure emulates theirs. My wife has taken on providing for her family without guilt or complaint, feeling completely peaceful with that role. And we are committed to keeping me home. So I can check up on the kids in those difficult middle and high school years, and be there when they come home. Just like her mother did for her.

Somewhere along the line we gave up trying to prove anything to each other, and developed a sense of humor. They realized I wasn’t going anywhere, and that it could be worse. And they were pretty swell kids after all. We all started laughing at my “Safety Queen” ways, and I bonded with my mother-in-law by taking her side in every argument and with my father-in-law by making ham dinners with all the trimmings.

There have been painful times. Like after our son was born and they asked my wife when she was going to have a baby of her own. And when we realized that during the first couple years of our son’s life, he wasn’t mentioned in their annual Christmas card unlike their other grandson. Like knowing we will never be quite good enough, because we are gay.

But there have been joyous times as well. Like the day they told us we were good parents. Like my father-in-law driving down two years in a row for Grandparents’ day at our son’s school. Like my mother-in-law flying down first thing when our daughter was born, staying for a week and helping out. Like all the birthday parties we’ve thrown for the kids, all of us staying up late icing the cake till midnight, chatting like magpies and having a lovely time. Like the evening recently when we toyed with the idea of a third child and there was mirth and encouragement, and they actually thought it was a fine idea.

It won my heart. And made it worth every moment.