It is Sunday, August 1, 2021, and I am in Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia at a family party. Relatives have gathered from California, New York, Maryland, and Colorado to celebrate the 100th birthday of a beloved family member. My husband and I, and my brother, fly in from Washington state to join the festivities.
The day is filled with warm hugs, delicious food, champagne toasts, and an eloquent speech by my aunt. We reminisce about the past, laugh about the present, and admire the young offspring of three young mothers, who, despite the earnest efforts of their husbands and the willing aid of the rest of us, look tuckered out. Fatigue is etched into their young faces despite their parental joy.
I remember that fatigue. Chasing kids, keeping a household, caring for my elderly mother, nurturing a spousal relationship, and trying to impress senior partners at a large Seattle law firm took Herculean efforts. Family social events were fun, but they were not relaxing. I had to corral three rambunctious boys while trying to both help the host and have coherent conversations with others.
I recall one Thanksgiving dinner, years ago, at my husband’s parents’ house. We herded our kids, cajoled them into suitable attire, and drove 40 minutes to my in-laws’ house. Their home was, as always, clean and bright, filled with not just the aroma of turkey, stuffing, and sweet potatoes, but the sounds of guests exchanging pleasantries. The Thanksgiving fare was predictably delicious – and filling.
Afterwards, we settled onto the couch in the family room, and my two sisters-in-law jumped up to help their mother with the dishes. I felt the familiar tug of female guilt. Though I had cleared the dining room table, I had not joined the female-only team assembled to tackle the massive clean-up job. I was just so tired; I could not summon the strength or the will to join the brigade.
I nudged my husband’s calf with my foot and murmured that he should join his sisters in the kitchen so that I did not have to. Don was watching football games on television with his father and had absolutely no misgivings about doing so. He assured me that his mother and sisters did not need help, that I would just get in the way, and that they wanted me to relax and enjoy myself. And so, I sat, exhaustion overcoming contrition. To my recollection that is the only time that I did not take part in a woman’s time-honored tradition following a family meal.
My mother-in-law passed away in 2014; my father-in-law had died years before her. Kate’s final years were marked by increasingly distanced relationships with her children, although to my husband’s credit, and that of his easy-going personality, they were never estranged.
My husband and I helped clear out Kate’s belongings, among them her handwritten journal. The diary did not have many entries, only a few each year, and it was easy to skim through them. Don and I read her diary, hoping to find closure – or at least understanding – for her deteriorated relationships. What we found instead was anger, the deeply rooted, visceral sort leveled in response to perceived injustices. It was clear she felt unappreciated and taken advantage of.
To my relief, there were only a couple of entries where I was mentioned. But one of them was about how I did not help with Thanksgiving dishes that day, her disapproving tone bordering on disgust. I was stunned, and yet, on some level, I felt like I deserved it. Her last communication with me, through her written words, was atonement for a generations-old female transgression that I had committed.
I have broken out of that mold, as have most women I know. When our children and their partners were at our house for a recent gathering, I protested when people tried to help with clean-up. Our youngest son has a newer relationship - at least in comparison to the rest of the pairings. When my son’s girlfriend finished her dinner, I smiled and leaned over to pick up her plate. We played a little tug of war game with it, and she was horrified that I insisted that she sit at the table while I cleared the dishes.
Unlike my mother-in-law, I am grateful beyond description that my children’s partners are in our lives. Their willingness to come over and hang out with us is the greatest gift they could bestow. I live in fear, just shy of mortal terror, that I will annoy them and that they will shun us, though the rational part of my brain knows that I worry too much.
I never want my kid’s partners’ visits to become a burden steeped in obligation, somewhat like the chore of doing dishes felt to me years ago.