While I’m wrapping Christmas presents, trying to send a long-delayed work email, and needing to pick up my three kids from school, my phone rings. Again. My heart sinks when my mother-in-law’s name comes up. This is the third time he’s called today.
‘Oh, hello Harriet*, is this a bad time?’ she trills. “I just didn’t want to call Philip because I know how busy he is.”
Sigh. She wouldn’t dream of disturbing my husband during the work day, but she thinks it’s perfectly fine to call me while I’m working from home. “I’m pretty busy too, Mary,” I say, silently fuming. ‘But how can I help you?’
“Oh, well, I know I’ll be seeing Philip later tonight (it’s nice of him to take the time to see us), but I need his menu options for the Christmas party. “I’m also waiting to hear back about what gift you would like.”
Couldn’t she have waited until later, I think to myself, when Philip, who’s been out every night this week, is going to help her move some furniture?
It drives me crazy when my overbearing Scottish mother-in-law treats me like my husband’s personal assistant.
Harriet says her mother-in-law sees her as an ally, simply because she also has a uterus.
She expects me to make all the arrangements on his behalf, from Sunday lunch to scheduling a time when he can talk to her in the evenings.
Then there are the multiple messages and calls about what to buy him and the kids for their birthdays. Not to mention asking for updates on your new job or how your last doctor’s appointment went. It goes on and on.
And things get even worse at Christmas, with double the daily hassles and demands. After 15 years of marriage, frankly, I’m sick of it.
It’s not that I haven’t asked Philip, an accountant, to step up rather than let me bear the brunt of his mother’s demands.
The truth is that he just doesn’t bother to take all of your calls. And when he doesn’t answer, she always calls me, since I’m too polite to do the same.
The fact that he is the main breadwinner probably has something to do with his approach, which adds to my resentment. She is the last of the generation in which wives did not work, but rather ran their husbands’ lives, and she seems to think it is my duty to fall in line.
She never really understood that I am self-employed and work from home, and sees me as the main “housewife”, aka the port of call for everything.
She marvels that Philip takes care of cooking and picking up school things. She thinks she deserves a medal.
And although he has never openly criticized the fact that I work, he clearly expects me to put the children first. Philip once answered the phone when I was away for work and asked me where the hell I was.
Meanwhile, she never questioned Philip’s absence or considered it a dereliction of duty if he does not care for the children 24/7.
Philip’s father, a retired accountant, barely says a word and seems happy for her to micromanage his life.
And Philip also likes a quiet life, so although he admits that she is extremely authoritarian, he will never agree to complain to her or dare to suggest that she bother me less.
This irritates me, to say the least. The fact that he finds it easier to passively ignore her than to defend me when I’m stressed simply enables her… and leaves me fuming.
Last week he called while I was shopping. ‘I just wanted to check if Philip needs more jumpers. They have some beautiful cashmere ones on sale at John Lewis,” he asks.
‘Mary, I just had to pause a Zoom meeting to take this call. I thought it might be urgent because I saw that you had called three times. ‘Can this wait?’ click.
‘Oh, well, I didn’t realize how busy you were. I guess it can wait… but what about the jumpers?
Later, when Philip gets home, I ask him if he called his mother today. “I haven’t had any chance,” he tells me. “You know what she’s like.”
When I tell him that she interrupted my meeting to talk about Christmas knitwear, he just laughs.
‘It’s not funny!’ say. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I have to deal with all these petty things instead of you.” Emotional labor, I think it’s called. ‘When are you going to step up and deal with her?’ I rebuke him.
It wasn’t always like this. I remember when Philip first took me home to meet his parents, at their old rectory, Mary and I got on very well. We chatted for hours about everything from our favorite wallpaper to the books we were reading.
I thought it was quite endearing that he took such an interest in the lives of Philip and his sister Matilda. He didn’t know what a poisoned chalice he would become.
Looking back, it was when we were planning our wedding that the interference started.
She expected me to consult with her about how the ushers would dress, what kind of jokes the best man would be allowed to make, and even schedule hair appointments for her extended family coming from Scotland. He knew she wouldn’t even dream of asking Philip to do those things.
Then, when I went on maternity leave to have children, she started inviting herself to stay and was happy to tell me how to raise them. Everything from my breastfeeding technique to weaning came under scrutiny.
Things seem to have gone from bad to worse since then, and she expects me to be the source of everything related to Felipe, while her prodigal son remains quiet.
She would never dare criticize him or complain that he hasn’t responded to her and constantly makes excuses for him.
She sees me as her ally, simply because I have a uterus too.
That night, just as we sit down to eat, the phone rings. I know it must be Mary because only she or the doctor’s office calls the landline.
“Ignore it,” I tell Philip, but since it’s still ringing, he puts down his knife and fork and goes to pick up the receiver.
Tell him I don’t know what fucking sweater you want and that I don’t care if we have pork or beef for lunch on Sunday! Shout.
Could this be the Christmas where I finally break down and tell him to stay out of our lives?
- Harriet Wallace is a pseudonym and all names have been changed.