I hate spending the night at my father-in-law's

Family 2022
I hate spending the night at my father-in-law's
I hate spending the night at my father-in-law's

When we get married, we get not only a husband, but also new relatives. Which can, fortunately, turn out to be infinitely cute - but there are no ideal people. And you have to put up with their shortcomings - they are now your family. But sometimes you just want to grumble! What our author does.

I hate spending the night at my mother-in-law's

Let me first clarify: my husband's parents are wonderful people.

They are the kind of people who will gladly try to give you their coat (watch, pot) if you say: “Oh, what a wonderful coat! (watch, saucepan)" They ask you how you are, not out of habit, but because they are really interested. And they never scold my husband and me for not visiting them often even though they live only 40 minutes away from us.

In general, they are as cute as can be.

But, as is often the case with in-laws, there is one thing I really hate: sleeping in their house. To put it mildly, it's not exactly the kind of environment where I would like to put on my pajamas and stay longer.

They have a small house in the suburbs on a tiny piece of land, but enough furniture and knick-knacks for Versailles. They are not hoarders, but simply drown in things.

Stacks of old magazines and newspapers are stacked everywhere: you can probably still find news from Khrushchev's cornfields there. The shelves are lined with a collection of porcelain figurines. Souvenirs of all stripes, glasses, coasters, vases, napkins - on every square centimeter. Frames with photos of family members no longer fit on the walls … And the list goes on.

You can't squeeze into some rooms and corridors - they are so full of junk that no one will ever use. Why keep broken skis, a sidecar frame, a rusty bike and an old black and white TV (even though we installed a plasma screen for it)?

When we spend the night, we have to sleep in such a cluttered room that one morning I stretched and accidentally knocked down three Santa Clauses at once, who were standing on a chest of drawers in anticipation of the New Year. It was in June.

I don't mean to be arrogant, but my parents' house was regularly cleaned. And here everything is covered with layers of age-old dust. When I finally find a cutting board and a knife in the kitchen (among the baggies, a million coffee and mayonnaise jars, Styrofoam pads, and cut-off milk and juice cartons - as if there aren't enough normal dishes in the house), they have to be scraped off from the fish that was cleaned a month ago. After showering, I feel dirtier than when I walked in. There are so many bottles of shampoo and shower gel stored there that it would be enough to wash an elephant - if only they were not all almost empty. Touch one and the domino effect begins, just catch it in time.

Because of all this, in nine years of marriage, my husband and I slept in his childhood home so many times that you can count them on the fingers. It's good that we at least agree with him in our views on this issue. At the very beginning of our relationship, I was afraid to tell him why I prefer to go by the last train home than to stay, but he raised this topic first. He said our tiny apartment was much more comfortable.

We are ashamed that we have to do this, but we are always looking for an excuse to quickly say goodbye and leave. We always “get up early tomorrow” (even on weekends), we either “the cat doesn’t feel well,” or we “forgot to take our pills.”

Unfortunately, it is not always possible to avoid spending the night. As a rule, we are expected to spend the night after the holidays. But (apart from teasing about five old broken computers per room) we can't tell them how to run the house.

Yes, they can be filthy, but they are still loving and kind people, and many of my friends cannot boast of the same with their relatives. So I try to accept them as they are - and keep the train schedule in my purse.

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