Most mothers teach their children that if they’ve nothing nice to say, then saying nothing is preferable. My own mother, however, taught me that if there is truth worth telling, to tell it.
So Ima gonna tell, and youra gonna listen. Here’s an open letter.
Dear Mother-in-Law With the Quintessential Chicken-Headed Haircut that for Some Reason You Paid For,
Next time you whine about not having a closer relationship, don’t preface it by saying that you “made a big mistake” by “agreeing” to our wedding. I know this comes as a great shock to you, but we never asked for, nor required, your permission.
Next time you hijack your son’s entire wedding and ruin any chance at a healthy relationship with your daughter-in-law, at least put up a fucking picture. It’s called “follow-through.” No time or space to hang a portrait, you say? The wedding was eight months ago and you’ve got a 13,000 square foot mansion. The fact that you refuse to acknowledge the photographic evidence of our marriage in no way means it did not happen.
Next time your grown, married son lets you know he’s having a child, try to say something other than “Oy.”
Next time you have a shot at therapy, for god’s sake TAKE IT. While difficult, it’s not impossible to treat Narcissistic Personality Disorder. There are medications, and if those don’t work, I will happily commit you for extensive treatment.
No, you are not merely a “Jewish mother” who simply “can’t help but be involved”, nor any number of benign, stereotypical caricatures with which you identify to make excuses for your inappropriate and infantile behavior. Really, you’re just an asshole who has had her butt kissed for far too long. The sooner you cop to it, the sooner I can let you out of this armbar.
Your comments about “the working-class” are anything but elegant. This is the problem with the nouveau-riche. You forget that your parents could not afford a bed, and that you and your husband lived in their basement until you were thirty. Your elitism stems from self-loathing. Your ostentatiousness is a desperate attempt to compensate. Pull your head out of your ass.
The night you scolded your son in public for expressing an ambition not in line with your wishes, you failed to recognize that you were lecturing a grown man and his wife. Plenty of other people did notice, however. They stared, and it made even your diamonds look ugly.
Next time, try to save the remark, “Good boy! You finished your plate!” for a four-year-old.
Next time your son attempts an adult conversation, try not to fly into a personal attack deliberately aimed at making him feel guilty and small. Try not to become enraged at his adult communication or begin slinging veiled threats. By the way, thank you very much for wishing us a happy life – we shall have one. You, on the other hand, are quite unhappy and I feel sorry for your utter lack of joy, empathy, or ability to be accountable for your own fulfillment.
In Summary (take a note if you have to):
I. Personally. Have. Had. It.
He may be your son, but he is my husband, my lover, my best friend and the father of my child. According to my calculations, I have you outnumbered by the sheer nature of my being. There will be no further contact until you can act your age and show up with an honest apology and a little fucking respect. Until then.
The Queen is dead; Long live the Queen!
The Bewildered Housewife 