Listen to new parents

If it isn't your baby, you get no say.

If it isn't your baby, the parents get all of the say.

I don't care how many kids you had, how many kids you didn't have, how many kids you've taught, or whether your child is one second older or five decades older.

Not your kid, not your say.

Think the parent is neurotic? Crazy? Depressed? Ignorant? Don't care.

Is the child's life or safety in danger? Ok.

No matter what the parents say, that's what you do. And when you are in their home, you are the guest. You. Have. No. Say.

The next visit from my in-laws was a major turning point. I never did care much for them. I lost my respect for them when they blamed my third miscarriage on us not attending church.

As of this point, they were buying things we told them not to buy. They were trying to visit every weekend. We managed to hold our feelings and stay polite up until that day. She insisted on whispering. She constantly accused the baby of having a pain.

When they visited, they sat on my couch, leaving her perfume smell and his cologne smell for days afterwards. They held him and whispered and took pictures. They stayed for hours. They kept bringing things into our house that we asked them not to bring. And then it happened.

They brought us food from Zea's. I was trying to finish my meal and the baby was in his swing, a.k.a his favorite place in the world. She wolfed down her food and grabbed her camera and went to the baby. I asked her to please wash her hands.

He was maybe two months old? Just shy of it? He hadn't gotten those important vaccines yet. It was still cold and flu season.

My M-I-L only eats fried shrimp when she goes out to eat. I like to bring them places without fried shrimp in order to make her branch out. Then she orders whatever I'm eating, because I guess she figures if I eat it, it can't be bad. So that's when I get things with hummus on them haha.

Anyway, Zea is a rotisserie restaurant and she ordered, you guessed it, fried shrimp. You know, a high allergen food. And it's greasy. And! She hadn't washed her hands before eating. So, barf.

I asked her to wash her hands first. She ignored it. I repeated myself.

"Oh, I will."

Please. Please wash your hands first.

"I will."

Shoot a glance to Mark.

"Mom. Please wash your hands before you go near him."

"Oh, I did."

What. The. Actual. Fuck. No. She. Didn't.

I said "No you didn't. You came in. You handed out the food containers. You sat down. You ate. You went to the baby. Please wash your hands."

"Oh, I did it at the restaurant."

I almost exploded.

So you went to the restaurant. Used the restroom. Washed your hands. Touched your credit card. Signed the receipt using a pen at the register. Opened the door. Walked to the car. Used the handle. You yourself talked about how everything was covered in pollen. Touched your door and your seat belt. Touched then again to get out. Shut the door. Rang the doorbell. Came inside. Ate without washing your hands. Ate greasy shellfish. Didn't wash your greasy shellfish hands. Went straight to the newborn.

"I'll do it."

She sat there.

Mark: "Mom. Just please wash your hands."

She ignored him. I was boiling. I was trying to finish my food and couldn't get the last bite of corn grits to stay on my fork. On the fourth failed jab, I went "Oh, son of a bitch."

His dad was sitting across from me. He spoke:

"I heard that."

This is a man who will drop worse curse words at times. Not often, but he's not clean.

I looked up, confused. Was he joking?

Then I saw the hatred and anger on his face. He was practically shaking.

I said "I'm sorry. I didn't know I couldn't swear in my own home."

He continued glaring and shaking. "I. Heard. What. You. Said."

And then it hit me: He thought I was calling his wife a bitch.

I'd like to go on record as saying I wish that I had. Because if I had, I would have had something to apologize for. I also wish I had because, you know what? That was a bitchy thing to do.

I was a teenage girl. I made it through my teen years without EVER calling my mother a bitch. Do you know what an accomplishment that is for many people these days?

I said "Ohhhh. Oh. I was mad because my food wouldn't stay on my fork."

He glared.

"I was frustrated. I said son of a bitch. About the food."

He continued to glare.

"Didn't you see me repeatedly stab it? You're sitting right across from me."

Pause. Why was he so convinced I called her a bitch? Was it because that thought crossed his mind? That she was doing something extremely bitchy?

Mark didn't hear this happening. He came to see if he could grab my empty takeout container. I slammed my fork down and said yes. I got up, grabbed my pump, and went in the baby's room. I stayed for a while. I kicked them into a tighter privacy setting on FB. I was job hunting anyway. I needed my profile on lock.

When I finished pumping, I put the milk away and cleaned my parts. I said nothing to anyone and went into my bedroom and shut the door. I refused to go by them. Mark eventually came to see what was up. I said I was not going anywhere near them. He had no idea what had happened. They finally left, hours later. He told them I was napping because I was going out with friends that night and needed to rest. I hate that he lied. Lies are his family's language of love.

When they were gone, I filled him in the rest of the way.

I assumed it would blow over. I was very wrong.