I wish I had never invited my in-laws over for Christmas.  Now I'm beginning to see that it may have been a huge mistake.

I have tried my darndest to try to get along with Mother and Father Newkirk, but they make it hard.  Father is such a tightwad with his money, and Mother is the exact opposite:  she is one of these who wants to spend, spend, spend; to her money is no object.  She wants her family to have the best of everything.

I don't blame her one bit; she's always been like this, ever since I've known her for the past 10 years.

She and her husband fight about this as well, but she, more or less, ignores him, and goes along and does her own thing anyway.

Now that they have grandkids, making sure the kids have the best of everything is even more important to her.  (Or rather, just one of them, which I will get into more detail in a bit.)

Just this week (on Monday), she called us from Seattle, Washington, to gush over the phone about the new doll house she'd gotten for Cinda Kay, I gathered that it wasn't the cheapest model around.  I tried to listen with interest, but I soon became bored as she prattled on about it.  She then announced that they were coming in in several days to celebrate Christmas with us, her favorite son and wife.  Meaning us.

Not much room to get ready and prepare for their arrival.  Whereupon,  Jim, my husband, and I nearly broke our necks and backs trying to get the house whipped into pristine condition, so Mother wouldn't think we were a pair of pigs living in a sty.

In addition to all that, we got the tree up and the gifts all wrapped (and hidden from sight from prying eyes). 

She didn't even mention Kylen James, our other child, when she'd called. 

She has never really liked him because he was adopted from Egypt when he was a baby.  To her, he isn't her grandson; he's just another "black child", even though he is legally and permanently ours.

Mother dotes on Cinda Kay because she is the first grandchild; that is, she should have the best of everything. 

Which is where this doll house comes in.

After I got off the phone with Mother, I complained to Jim about how negatively she treated Kylen.  In fact, I told him point-blank that she never even mentioned him; it was all about Cinda and her stupid doll house.  Jim just gave me a reassuring hug and told me he would talk to her about Kylen; I told him it would be like hitting a brick wall.  He told me that he'd try anyway, just so she could get him something for Christmas, so he wouldn't be disappointed come Christmas morning.

I dreaded the thought of Mother coming.  Already I could see the warning lights going up, feel the sense of forboding in my inner spirit.  She was always looking for something about my family (or myself) to criticize, be it the way we fixed our home, the way I did my hair or what I wore, the way the kids behaved, the way Kylen looked ... 

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Mother and Father arrived on Wednesday morning.  They came up our driveway in a cab.  She then came out, in her fancy, flouncy way, and bounced up the driveway while her husband, Morton, carried all the packages.

Jim kissed his parents; I kissed Father, but gave Mother a clumsy hug.  I told them that they were welcome in our home; she just looked at me, stuck her snooty nose in the air, and walked past me.  I was hurt, but I tried to shrug it off, to show her that it didn't bother me, when it really did.

Cinda Kay screeched happy screams when she saw her grandmother and grandfather.  She covered their faces in wet kisses.  Kylen James, meanwhile, hung back shyly; he wasn't used to his grandparents just yet.  Things were still quite unfamilar to him. 

Mother gave Kylen a haphazardly hug and peck; then I saw her wipe it off with the back of her hand.  That rankled me but I didn't say a word.  I just let it slide.

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For the first day, things seemed to go okay; few words were said between Mother, Father, and myself, but I tried to keep the peace, for the sake of the children.  I just let the kids have their fun and enjoy their time with grandma and grandpa; after all, they didn't see them but maybe twice a year.

That was fine with me.

Of course, Kylen didn't know his grandparents that well; he'd only heard of them from when we talked about them or showed him their picture; to him they were nothing more than strangers.  He'd only been in America less than a year; he was still feeling his oats as the newest member of the Newkirk family.

Plus he was only two years old.  I doubted very much he even knew what was going on around him half the time, let alone, remember when we talked about grandma and grandpa.  He was barely past babyhood.

I could tell, though, that Mother was bothered by the very sight of Kylen James.  With his dark-brown skin tone, tight, curly afro, and funny-accented voice, he wasn't at all like Jim, Cinda Kay, or myself.  He stuck out like a sore thumb.  She had never really liked "people of color"; now she had one as her grandson, and she was having trouble digesting it, even though we'd told her more than once we were adopting him from Africa.

You would think she would be used to it by now.  We couldn't have been more wrong.

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Just yesterday, as Mother and I were cleaning the potatoes for the potato salad, she mentioned Kylen's appearance.  I'd gotten sick and tired of her making digs about our new son, so I asked  Mother to please drop it. 

Mother, of course, looked injured, when I'd chided her about it.  I told her that Kylen was as much her grandchild as was Cinda Kay, and she should learn to accept him and love him, too.  Mother just sighed, and said, "Well, Wendie,  I don't see why you couldn't have adopted a child that looked more like ... like  Cinda ... instead of taking in a child who looks more like a baby monkey."

That did it.  I had had enough.  I straightened myself up to my full 6'2" tall height (I easily towered over Mother by a good foot and a half), and I gave her an ultimatum:  either she learn to accept Kylen James and get him something for Christmas or else she wasn't welcome in our home any longer.  I told her enough was enough.

Mother, of course, reacted dramatically.  She started whining about how she'd been sick (sick in the head was more like it) and that she shouldn't be treated so harshly by her own family.  I tried not to let it bother me, but to see her gobbling and carrying on steamed me up big time.  I told her to keep it down as the kids could probably hear us fussing in the kitchen.

It was all I could do to keep from wanting to pull my mother-in-law's head off.

*End of part one.*