It’s weird, the things that go along with getting married that you don’t really think about until they’re right there in front of you.
You get lot of champagne, for example.
And cards from people you haven’t heard from in ages.
But more importantly you get in laws. And my luck in the mother-in-law department is superseded only my luck in having found PIC in the first place.
I was a bit nervous about meeting PIC’s parents for the first time but then I pulled myself aside and gave myself a little talk that went a little something like this:
You are an adult. You have a career. You own a house. Yes, your personality can be a bit quirky at times and you write a blog about men and sexy underwear but if his parents don’t like you, then that’s their problem and they live far away so you won’t have to see them that often anyway.
Well. I could not have been more mistaken. It was Christmas and even though I wasn’t an actual daughter-in-law yet (PIC and I had been dating a whole 6 weeks at the time), his mother ensured that I got the same number of presents as everyone else, including their real daughter-in-law (PIC’s brother’s wife, who is pretty cool in her own right).
And we’re not talking crap from the Dollar Store: we’re talking Clinique makeup, a Starbucks card, a Pandora bracelet and the official 2014 Christmas charm, a Vera Bradley bag, a new novel that I actually really liked, etc…
But it wasn’t just the gifts (or the fact that we wear the same size shoe and that she actually loaned me a pair of flats like 24 hours after meeting me because my heels were making my feet hurt).
It was what happened the next day, when we went to a wedding of one of PIC’s college friends. Since PIC’s mom had known the friend for years, she came along with us to the ceremony. It was a full blown, rather lengthy Catholic mass and the priest was really… is it appropriate to say “working the crowd?”
During the homily, I glanced over and saw that my future MIL was writing something in the program.
I thought to myself, “Oh my God. Is she taking notes on the sermon? Like to read back again at some other time? Is she that religious?”
But she wasn’t taking notes on the homily. She was writing comments about its length. And when she discreetly slid it down the pew for me to read, I could barely keep a straight face.
That’s when I knew I liked her.