Yesterday was Mother’s Day, and I pray you all had a great one-mine started out precariously, and it proved that no good deed goes unpunished. Indeed.
In a moment of weakness, compassion and dumbassery-I asked my MIL if she would like us to join her on Mother’s Day-at her church. Actually, my husband brought the notion up last Sunday-and I told him I’d pray on it-only to find that he had been joking. JOKING. Unfortunately, it was too late. My heart got the better of me, and I set plans for 9:30 a.m. We would be meeting in the strip mall that held her place of worship (Dwain and I called it The Cult) thirty minutes prior to the service.
Dumbassery at its finest.
Anyhooser, Dwain was none too pleased with the news, but I held my ground.
“What could POSSIBLY go wrong? We’ll be in church, sort of,” I stammered.
You have to understand a few things before I go on. My MIL is a narcissist with possible Sociopathic tendencies. She can scream at volume eleventy hundred with the best of them, and at one point in fact-she locked herself in the bathroom on my husband’s 35th birthday because his WIFE was taking him out to eat. The histrionics were impressive, but I’m no longer intimidated. Things have become manageable between us, as I take no shit and she knows this-she knows better than to mess with the likes of this girl. Everything turned around the day I stood up to her-any attempts to bring me under her control have failed-and with my new strength I laugh in the face of danger, daily.
So the cult, I mean church fills up to maximum capacity. I have to admit, between the praise music and the guest (a Christian comedian who had us in hysterics) my husband and I were truly enjoying ourselves. We sat there for two hours, no major faux pas-I did spill my Kombucha on a stranger, but nothing major-patiently awaiting the blessing.
From the corner of my eye, I see the veneer on her face. It has cracked, and the pieces are falling all over the place. She was even drinking her water in an angry fashion, which made me pee myself a little, but thankfully I was wearing a carefree panty liner.
What’s wrong with my mother?
“I don’t know, why don’t you ask her?,” I reply.
Dwain, still mildly petrified of his mother, shook his head in definitive protest.
Before I could even ask, the tirade began.
“Well, I’m not even going to clap for him. (The comedian) I wanted my pastor to be here (he was on vacation) and the real praise team (he was on vacation) to be here. And…”
I quit listening. A seething rage began from the depths of my being: I held it in, but I could feel the monster within, pushing and prodding at my insides-he wanted out, and in the worst way.
I stand outside in the semi-hurricane and wait for my husband to pick me up-which he does every Sunday. The wind is blowing people’s umbrellas inside out, I think I hear a woman scream, where the HARRY is my husband? I re-entered the church four times before I finally stormed out and to the truck. I open the door…
“What the FUCK?????????????????????”
I scream these words at volume coxswain, and sit my ass in the seat.
“I was on the phone with your son. Sorry. And by the way, there may be people in upstate New York who didn’t hear you.”
“DRIVE,” the monster says.
“Just fucking DRIVE.”