Mothers-In-Law

I’ll confess, I struggle.

My husband swears his mother has only the truest of intentions with me, but I swear under her Pollyanna demeanor lurks the kind of competitiveness for which mothers-in-law are infamous.

“How many extra calories are you supposed to eat when you’re breastfeeding?” mine asked as I scarfed down yet another handful of corn chips dipped in Ro*tel Cheese Dip, a.k.a. my favorite comfort food of all time this afternoon in between nursing sessions. Was she merely intellectually curious—how many extra calories does it take to nurse a baby and maintain one’s own ability to function?—or was it a barb at my Midwestern willingness to eat a processed cheese product by the scoop-chip-ful or at the soft pillow of fat still padding my belly a week after giving birth? Why would she care? Does she care, or is this just the way women from Los Angeles relate to each other—even liberal ones with generally good intentions?

Yesterday the question was about how much weight I’d gained while pregnant. Thirty-five pounds, I told her, feeling rather proud. Now, did her reply of, “Really?! Where did you put it?” mean “You looked so great! Where did you hide the weight on your lovely, svelte frame??” or, “God! Thirty-five pounds is so much! Where the hell did you carry such a gigantic mass and how on earth will you ever work it all off again so that my perfect doctor son can have the perfectly skinny wife he deserves? Do you want me to see if my trainer has any recommendations of someone who can work with you in Seattle? Time’s a wasting! Put down that chip!”

To her calorie question, I told my mother-in-law I did not know the answer. “I don’t count calories,” I said, not a little defensively as I wiped a stray blob of Velveeta off my chin and reached for another handful of chips.