Survivor: La Canada Edition

Our third trip to California with a child in tow was just before the Christmas Henry would turn one. After months of planning this trip, we are greeted at the airport by my mother-in-law and father-in-law in their 1990 Vanagon. The questions I usually get from persons of my generation are (1) what is a Vanagon? and (2) “Do those things still exist?/Aren’t those things from the 60s?”

To address the second question of whether, in fact, these vehicles exist: ‘Yes, Virginia, there is a Vanagon.’ The first one that my in-laws had, they acquired while travelling through Europe (prior to children and in the 60s) and brought it back to the states. They liked it so much; they bought another one in 1990 and still use it.

To adequately address the first question, I must impart that my in-laws owned, not one, but 2, identical, stripped to the bones, Vanagons, at some point during my husband’s lifetime. The Vanagon’s logo should’ve been: “Seats 20, safety optional.” And while this one was actually manufactured after 1980, I believe that my in-laws would’ve bought a 1960s Vanagon, had it been an option, and had it been cheaper. I will note that there is not one single upgrade to a car that my mother-in-law, to this date, has determined is ‘worth paying for.’ There is no need for a radio (actually forbidden while she drives because she can’t hear herself talk). She likes ‘fresh air’ and not air conditioning (even in 100 degree weather with 100% Virginia humidity), so having air conditioning is another ‘waste.’ And why pay for power accessories when you can have a husband who will move them for you. I think her ‘return to basics’ approach is one of the reasons they have been hesitant to make a new car purchase in over 10 years, close to 15. You can’t even buy a stripped down car these days if you wanted to. I will also add that my mother-in-law doesn’t believe in seat belts and only mildly thinks that Car Seats are even necessary for children. Famous quote: “We didn’t use them in the 1970s and my kids survived just fine.”

So, on December 20, they were waiting at LAX in the Vanagon for us to drive home. I will temper my thoughts with the prior story of the first pick up at Long Beach airport, when they brought their ‘newer’ Olds, we didn’t have enough room and weren’t able to shut the trunk. So while I had a nerve-wrecking drive, watching my husband maneuver the same vehicle he and his high school buddies ‘borrowed one night for a road trip to Mexico,’ thinking of how if the brakes failed my husband and my mother-in-law would be splattered onto the roof of the car in front of us, if they weren’t able to fly further from the flat-fronted Vanagon with its engine elsewhere, we could’ve spent the ride crammed into the Olds low-rider. And thankfully (I think) my husband is driving more than 45 miles per hour. When my father-in-law drives, my husband (and I) are both a bit impatient watching other cars that go 55 scream past us on the highway. We arrive at Chez Kirkeby to encounter a dirt ‘lawn’ and a dumpster full of the Ivy that once occupied front lawn of their home. But what concerned me the most as we approached the house were the apologizes from my mother-in-law concerning the condition of the house. Now I was worried. To begin with, she isn’t really a homemaker. While she’s been home full time for 35 years, she doesn’t cook, minimally cleans, and doesn’t really organize very much. Oh, and she doesn’t ever thrown anything ‘useful’ away. There are a few aspects of her life that are very controlled, but on a macro level, the house is far from it. I always fear I am becoming her, partially because I enjoy some of her tendencies (to a relatively light extent) and partly because my husband tells me so. So while I don’t want to endure it, it’s probably therapeutic as after a visit, I come home and pack up stuff for Goodwill.

So we arrive at the house and it’s a disaster area as expected. The ‘public’ areas are appropriately picked up (Note: Living Room, the Guest Room and the Family Room are free of most clutter. These are ‘public areas’), but there is only one ‘available’ bedroom for our family. I am used to at this point, setting up the pack-n-play in our room when we are visiting and dealing with an almost one-year-old breastfeeding advocate who thinks if he see us, it’s eat and then playtime. But, after this long day, and the fact they have a 4 bedroom house, and only 2 occupants that share a room, I had hoped one other room would be open enough for us to squeeze Henry in somewhere. Further, my mother was planning to join the family in about 3 days for the holidays, and she would need to sleep somewhere. My MIL had explained she ‘got too busy’ and would need to do some moving around before my mom got there. So, thinking that I could be crafty and find a little place to put my son so I can get a good night’s rest, I open the door to the adjoining room and there are no less than about 15 boxes atop 2 twin beds, and a full dining room set stacked with several messes of random items from my sister-in-law’s growing up. So much that you can’t even walk through the room to get to the bathroom. We were staying in my husband’s ‘old’ room, which was also ‘a public’ guest room, so it was cleaned up enough for guests. The 4th room or ‘Den’ is packed with Banker Boxes that all stand about 6-7 feet high and that are dusty and mostly full of junk mail from the late 80s and early 90s that my MIL couldn’t yet bear to part with. This paperwork was probably unnecessary and/or just a plain fire hazard, but until she could take the time to read every piece, it would stay. There is about enough room to stand once you slide open the pocket door to the room, but other than that, it’s musty, scary, and full. So I resign myself to, at least for tonight, share our room with a child who gets up at the first sight of the sun and a very avid nurser.

We come in to find a dinner planned (half the battle) in honor of my husband’s birthday a few days earlier. We flew out after he had finished his semester exams and his birthday fell on an exam day. So there wasn’t a whole lot of celebrating then and she had planned a ‘feast’ for the evening. I don’t recall the entire menu, but I remember 2 distinct things about it: (1) there was a tasteless piece of meat that had been cooked no less than 4 hours and (2) there was a ‘Confetti’ birthday cake that was iced and served from the dish that it baked in. I chalk both of these things up to my mother-in-law’s Midwestern upbringings and her motherhood commencing during the 1970s. My MIL claims the cake is my husband’s favorite. I think it WAS his favorite from his teen or childhood years, but I think while he still likes and eats it, it’s one of those many things a mother will always remember as her child’s favorite.

One distinct thing about spending 2 weeks at her house, and having to make sure that my child and husband are fed, is making sure that there is the right amount of food in the house for the appropriate meals. My MIL likes to collect food, but most of it is not readily edible. She has about 200 bottles of salad dressing, 25 boxes of cake mix and no less than 30 lbs of sugar (her ‘required’ amount) and about 15 grapefruits at one given time, but nothing defrosted to be able to make a meal. So while I was elated that there was something to eat I questioned three things: first, how old the meat was and second, would I be able to stomach it? And finally, whether this would be the one and only meal she would plan and prepare. That Christmas, my MIL and I did battle over my ‘taking over her kitchen.’ Now every mother-in-law will see me as the rude and intrusive daughter-in-law, and all DILs will understand that I had a little guy to feed and, as a ‘nurturer’ I also wanted to be able to feed my husband, his poor father-in-law, who usually subsided on questionably old ‘leftovers’(because my MIL won’t eat leftovers), and myself.

Speaking of questionable leftovers, once when I was visiting pre-children and possibly pre-marriage, I was offered leftover ‘meatloaf.’ I highlight that it was called ‘meatloaf,’ but it was in fact, a meat loaf (emphasis on loaf). Basically a chunk of only ground beef that had been cooked for a long period of time. My father-in-law couldn’t remember when it was made before it was offered to us, but I was hungry and decided to take a chance. However, it was one of those meals when you were physically forcing yourself to eat something because you were constantly thinking about whether it would be bad for you in the end. In order to stomach the meat loaf, I asked for ketchup as I couldn’t find it in their fridge. ‘We don’t buy ketchup.’ was my MIL’s answer as she pulled out a former Country Crock container of Butter filled with various companies’ ketchup packets. I was initially relieved that I would know where the ketchup came from until I noted that the logo from McDonald’s was not a current one. Looking at one of the packets, it had a 1979 trademarked symbol, that I know hadn’t been used in a probably since they invented the Happy Meal. That ketchup was brown. Avoiding the brown ketchup, I moved onto a ‘Jack n The Box’ packet that looked more recent and, more importantly, being from the East Coast, I don’t know Jack in the Box well enough to know whether it was old or new. At least that ketchup was red. I worried about the other Tupperware containers full of mayonnaise packets, but knew I had to pick my battles.

Back to Christmas: that night’s dinner, the meat was edible enough and I tried to forget its origin. For the remaining meals while in California though, I ended up making a trip to Trader Joe’s the next morning, for a few things, one of them notably wine and beer. My in-laws don’t drink. They don’t forbid it (as my MIL’s sister and husband do and I am not really up for those visits without some buffer of alcohol), so I am fortunate that they, at least, allow it. But when you get off a 6 hour flight with a one year old, you NEED that glass of wine. For this ‘celebration,’ my sister-in-law and her husband were there and my brother-in-law, who understands the pain, was smart enough to contribute to the cause and bring some beers and a bottle of wine.

So we have a nice dinner, and I get ready to put Henry to bed, so I can REALLY enjoy the wine and take a load off after a long day. I take him into the bathroom and start to get ready for bath time. He is not really interested in the bathtub - in fact, because of the 1960s doors and lighting combination (neither of which have been remotely updated in the over 40 years they have owned the house), the bathroom is a quite scary to a little guy. So, with his grip firmly on me, giving me the message, ‘there is no way I am getting in that tub,’ I start to run the water. While squatted down, I notice what any mother would, lots of black, curly small hairs all over the tub. I am not sure at first what they are, but upon further inspection, notice it is pubic hair. I look up a little higher and notice a very distinct discoloration line of the circa 1964 mustard-colored tub. The massive amount of hairs, combined with the very visual scum line, is evidence enough that this tub hasn’t been cleaned in a while.

At this point, all I wanted to do was put my child to bed. Instead, I was asking how an unemployed person, with no obligations, and family coming into town, couldn’t find the 15 minutes it took to scrub the tub, OR because they could afford it, pay someone else to. I was livid that she could take and keep detailed notes on all the members of ‘Survivor,’ but not take the time to clean the bathroom your only grandchild would be using. I digress. I ask for something to clean the tub (as everyone was still eating and didn’t want to thoroughly disgust the rest of the family) and my MIL leaps from the table to do it herself. I explain that, at this point, it’s easiest if I just do it (also to ensure that IF she had ‘cleaned’ it the first time, then her ‘cleaning’ was questionable at best). So I scrub the tub, bath the baby and get him ready for bed. Do his ‘normal routine’ about 3 hours behind so we hopefully get him on California time, and he’s asleep. I did not revisit the tragic bathroom, but did scrub the rest of it and washed all of the towels, just in case her laundering abilities mimicked the cleaning.

Time passes and it is now after midnight (almost 3 am our time) and we decide to go to bed, BUT before we roll in, my MIL says ‘Wait! I need to change the sheets.’ I ask ‘Why?’ and she explains that when her sister and brother-in-law were there about a month ago, she hadn’t changed the sheets yet. Yet?! She took the time to make the bed, but left the dirty sheets on it. Oh joy! Now the whirling dervish is going to wake up the sleeping baby to change the sheets. Remember, this is a woman who doesn’t understand the meaning of ‘indoor voice.’ I interrupt her scrambling, ask where the sheets are and proceed to change the bed. I am able to maneuver in the room to change the sheets without her presence and thankfully the baby is out and it’s not as hard as I thought it would be. When we finally laid to rest on the 25 year-old, ‘flatted by time’ pillows and starchy clean sheets, I was too tied to think about the almost 500 pounds that were sweating on that mattress and pillows only a month prior to that night.

I lay there thinking to myself how I survived the first day on the island without getting voted off. 14 more to go. . .