Plucky Letters to US soldiers in Iraq

November 14, 2003

Dear 101st Airborne Heroes,

Tomorrow Rudy and I will visit his Mexican mother. To be honest, I find these visits a bit difficult.

I tend to sit around trying hard to look amused/sympathetic/interested while my mother-in-law rambles on in Spanish- a language I sadly do not happen to speak- about events that seem to have taken place forty years ago. Despite the language barrier, I have cleverly deduced that she tells pretty much the same stories each time we visit. I am not sure if that’s because they are really good stories, or because nothing of interest has caught her attention since 1963. I would think giving birth to my husband, immigrating to the United States, and becoming an American citizen would rate a mention, but, hey, what do I know?

She will be wearing a dressy-dress outfit and stockings, but no shoes. I just cannot for the life of me figure that out. Why get half dressed up and then run around barefoot?

A meal might be served, since my mother-in-law loves to cook. This involves a pre-meal ritual in which we gather around the oven to gaze at the food, followed by a bizarre routine in which a gigantic sheet of industrial plastic is spread over the dining room table. (Presumably, this is to protect the precious tablecloth from potential slobs such as my husband and me.)
Then the hot food will be brought to the table, where it will become stone cold during the next 15 minutes while utensils and beverages are painstakingly sorted out. Once we are allowed to eat the cold meal, I may be called upon to declare my love of tamales for the 100th time. (I really do not love tamales in their blandly sticky native state; I think a little sage or oregano, and maybe some sausage, might make all the difference. But I’m not about to bring the ethnocentric wrath of Mexico down upon my blonde and politically incorrect head.)

At some point in the visit my mother-in-law will likely clutch her bosom, look heavenward, and cry, “My sons, my sons!” Then she will shed a dramatic-looking tear or two into a handy Kleenex. I assume by my husband’s pained reaction that this is simultaneously complimentary and obnoxious. Personally, I am always tempted to clutch my own not-so-ample bosom and declare,
“My sons! My sons, too!”
You know, just to make it clear there are literally millions of mothers running around out there, and some of us actually managed to give birth AND learn how set the table before serving the food.


Perhaps Rudy is equally horrified by visits with my parents. After all, my parents are insane. My dad walks around with an open can of beer in the pocket of his windbreaker and talks non-stop about politics and history. He knows everything about politics and history, and what he doesn’t know he makes up at random. You can tell when he is running out of steam because he will say, “…and everything and stuff like that.” Robby and I always kick each other under the table when Papa says, “and everything and stuff like that.” I’m thinking it should be part of the family crest:

Our Family
And Everything And Stuff Like That

Meanwhile, my mother grills me about her grandchildren. (My sons, my sons!) In tone and content, these conversations with my mother resemble interrogations. Robby and I call them “couch lectures.” My mother’s victims are always pinned to the couch while she extracts information, which she then uses to administer unwanted advice. Always a thrill.

The most challenging aspect of a visit to my mother & dad’s is the dinner-table conversation. Both of my parents require your full attention at all times and they are utterly and completely unaware of each other. They honestly do not hear each other talking; both of them think they are alone in the room with you and the other of them is merely producing background noise. Hence you are forced to try to carry on two completely different conversations simultaneously. Your head snaps back and forth between them as if you were watching a particularly active tennis match. My mother might be telling you about her vile new co-worker while Dad is giving forth on the virtues of the Libertarian Party. Your job is to maintain eye contact with both of them, supply Mom with supportive feedback, and give Dad the impression you know he is absolutely right.

This is trickier than you might imagine. It is easy to miss a cue, or answer in the wrong direction. Let’s say my mother just told you her new co-worker is a lazy, over-educated nincompoop right at the moment Dad was praising free market capitalism. You could easily mess up and tell Mom that’s absolutely the best thing for the economy, and tell Dad you think that sort of incompetence is inexcusable. When this happens, both of them will look at you as if there is something profoundly wrong with you. My dad will shrug it off and say something like, “It’s about liberty… and everything and stuff like that.”
My mother will think you are a suspicious character and she will probably give you a couch lecture at the first opportunity. That’s why it is best to always pay close attention to everything my mother says, and just throw my dad the occasional bone.


Ah, well, enough about me and my kooky relatives. Surely you have your own sources of familial strife. Suffice it to say that everybody’s goofy except me & you, and I’m not so sure about you.


Much love,

--An Army Mom