By Robin Garrison Leach
God gives a special gift to every woman who becomes a Mother-in-Law.
She is endowed by her Creator with the ability to send her Daughter-in-law into frenzied, Tasmanian-devil-like housecleaning with a simple phone call.
I love my Mother-in-law. She has never spoken a cruel word. Has never criticized my cooking, housekeeping or the way I dress her son.
She is short; her ear covers my heartbeat when she hugs me goodbye. Her frame is as unimposing as a child’s favorite teddy bear; she has been loved into silky softness through years of gentle wear. She is priceless to me; a treasure of smiles and kisses.
We are chatting on the phone: she, sitting properly in her favorite chair above a freshly vacuumed carpet. And me, sprawled on my couch atop newspapers, clothes that wait folding, and bits of last night’s popcorn-eating marathon.
My holey t-shirt is not an issue to either of us. The hair I pressed into place with my pillow is perfectly fine. I don’t have to shut every hinged door to hide my slothlike lifestyle.
I plop down on the nearest surface that can support me, ready to chew the fat. My stomach relaxes its few remaining muscles, and I practice spelling my name with my bare toes in the dust on the kitchen floor.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard
