The Post I Will Be Deleting In Two Weeks When She Sniffs Around My Laptop And Finds My Blog

My husband's mother, she is a saint.

She retired 2 years ago, and decided to join the Peace Corps.  She sold her home, divided all her worldly possessions amongst family and friends, and hopped on a plane to The Flying Spaghetti Monster only knows where in Africa to do things involving, I can only assume, Peace.  Also, Corps.

Her oldest grandchild was almost 15 when she left and her youngest was 5 months old.  We had, only 3 weeks before, packed up everything we owned and moved to Vancouver, so the transition was easy for everyone.  My boys have missed her more than I think any of us thought they would.  She is, truth be told, an amazing, attentive, loving, doting grandmother.

And, oh yeah, I kind of hate her guts.

I mean, I am fucking her son and all, and that just never plays into a relationship very well.  Add to that the fact that I am the world's most terrible mother, a pathetic excuse for a wife, and don't forget that my carelessness and fertility ruined her son's chance at a successful, real life.  We were doomed from the start.

You can imagine how much I have suffered since the day she moved to Africa, how sad and lonely I have been, how I have pined away for her from afar.  You can only imagine the sheer joy I felt in my heart when I heard that she was leaving the Corps and moving back to Denver.  Where none of her grandchildren live.  Where none of her children live.  Where her sisters that she sort of hates live.

Bygones.

A few months ago, before she decided to come back for good, she emailed to say she was visiting for 3of3's birthday.  Which is, honestly, awesome.  The kid needs to meet her gramma already.  We got each other on the phone one day soon after the email came and she asked me to research hotels in my neighborhood.  I said, "You know the kids aren't going to be okay with you staying in a hotel" to which she replied, "Mr Lady, you? Me? Two weeks? REALLY?" to which I replied, "I'll get back to you on the hotels."

She's been stateside for a week, a week and a half now?  I get an email last night.  Here it is:
I've gotten my tickets and will be on your doorstep, or least at your airport, very soon.  I will arrive in Vancouver on Sept. 17 at (doesn't matter o'clock) on a (airline) flight originating in (American city) and will leave Vancouver on Oct. 3 at (not really anyone's concern o'clock).

Here is where I fucked up, bigtime.  Here is where you should learn from my mistakes.  Instead of my follow-up email saying, as it should have, "So, do you still need hotel info or did you already book one?" my dumb-ass, passive argressive, can't even stand up to a 65 year old woman because she scares the fucking shit out of me self asked:
What's the plan while you are here?  Are you staying with us?

Yeah, you know exactly what the response was:
I leave it to you.  I remember from our last conversation about my coming that you felt the kids wouldn't have it any other way.  Mostly, I just want it to be easy and fun...and cheap, of course.  So, whatever works.  Love, (Clever mother in law who just dumped the Bitch Card squarely in my lap)

Fuck. Me.  Either I give up all hopes of sanity for two and a half weeks, find some uppers or some serious downers to swallow for a few weeks, and let her stay in my house where we don't have a spare bed, a spare room, or a spare minute, where it would just be me and her and the baby big girl all day, every day because her son works no less than 70 hours a week and the boys are in school 8 hours a day, or I make a poor woman who just spent two years in Africa spend what would clearly be the last few dimes in her retirement fund to stay in a hotel where she'd miss some of the only hours she's had with her grandchildren in two years because I am selfish and don't care about anyone but myself and am clearly no more fit to raise these children than I was before she left.

All of this?  Is because I am a pussy.  Is because, though I can write fucking odes to carbohydrates, I cannot properly compose one 10 word email to someone who already knows she should be getting a damn hotel room.  Is because I left the fucking door wide open, man.

I have two living, breathing, fully existent and sentient parents, and I don't speak ONE WORD to them.  There's a reason for that.  Why I have to be the one to deal with his mother, I'll never understand.  I've never made anyone talk to my mother, let alone try to negotiate with her.

Someone, anyone, get me out of this mess.  Or mail me some Valium, and fast.