Yesterday, I ate three healthy meals, came to work fully prepared, went to the gym, read a chapter aloud to my daughters before bed, and fell asleep before 10 p.m., knowing the pets were fed, the plants were watered, the laundry was put away, and the dishwasher was loaded.
Am I the most amazing mom on planet Earth? Far from it. But I may be the luckiest — because my mother-in-law lives with me.
My family moved for a job
Seven years ago, my husband, our two then-toddlers, and I packed up and moved over 1,000 miles away for a job I couldn’t turn down. Leaving our hometown meant saying goodbye to every grandparent our kids had, our cousins, and our childhood friends. In our new city, we had no family to speak of and only a few acquaintances from my college years. Babysitters were hard to come by (and afford), and grocery shopping became a tag-team sport.
For months, my husband and I were roommates at best, two adult ships just passing by one another at worst. I worked long hours while he carried most of the parenting load. The house was never fully clean. Some days I wore a bathing suit bottom instead of underwear because the laundry wasn’t done. Date nights didn’t exist.
But for one month each year, when my mother-in-law came to visit, we remembered who we were. She watched the girls while we went to dinner, and we relearned how to talk to each other as human beings in love. I’d come home to mopped floors, folded laundry, and kids buzzing from their latest board-game marathon or “British Bake Off” — style kitchen showdown with Grandma.
My mother-in-law’s visits were so necessary
As the girls got older, her visits became our beacon of hope. She helped with homework, basketball practices, and science projects. She reminded me I was more than a worker or mother — I was a whole person. We watched “Survivor” together, she cheered on my dream of writing a bestselling romance novel, and when no one else knew I needed to hear it, she told me I was a good mom.
At the end of each visit, when her suitcase rolled toward the front door, we all cried. My husband got quiet, the girls begged her to stay longer, and I dreaded going back to survival mode.
After her most recent departure, things hit a breaking point. I started a new job with a big scope of work and a lot to prove. My husband was traveling more. The girls had calendars busier than we could manage. Money was tight. “In this economy?” felt like the answer to everything.
She ended up moving in with us
One day, I pitched the idea to my husband: “What if your mom moved in?” We both loved the idea, but we had our doubts. His mom had lived her whole life in a tiny coastal California town with one stop sign. Why would she uproot to a desert city with yield left turns at every intersection?
But when I told her I was feeling depressed, that I’d had to tell the girls they couldn’t audition for a play because we couldn’t juggle practices, that I was worried about my marriage, she said: “If you want me there, I’ll move in.”
Luckily, we had a spare bedroom. Nothing glamorous — just a small room in a tract home. That summer, she packed her belongings, forwarded her mail, and showed up at our door, here to stay.
Four months later, it’s the best decision we’ve ever made. My kids now have a full cheering section at their games. The house is spotless (she actually loves to clean). When we work late, dinner is waiting for us. She even bakes and freezes protein muffins so I don’t skip breakfast.
My mother-in-law is starting to lay down roots. She is considering taking a local art class, volunteering at the animal shelter, or looking for a part-time job. She is teaching the girls how to crochet. They know their family history through her stories. On Thursdays, we stream “Survivor” and on other nights, we watch “Gilmore Girls” together — grandma and the kids for the first time, me for the fifth. My husband, who sat through the series once when I was pregnant, happily skips. But even his mood is lighter. He can run errands without checking if I’ll be home. And as much as I love his mom, I know he is so happy to have her close by again.
Of course, cohabitating means we sometimes step on each other’s toes. But after years of monthlong visits and now four months of living together, I can say this with certainty: I love our multigenerational home. And I love that she loves us enough to make it possible.
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