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The French Monster In Law
I bet my husband ten bucks that his mother would have a conniption fit when she saw that I didn’t use the socks that she had laid out with the baby outfit the night before. Besides the constant babble of “à mon advise”—basically unsolicited advice, her daily visits to the maternity ward consisted of riffling through the baby valise to find the clothes that she bought for her to wear. She was basically her Barbie and I broke the Barbie playtime rules by switching the pink socks for lavender ones on the sly. My husband owes me a ten spot, by the way.
After six days in a French Hospital having my baby girl, I am *this* close to landing in a different French institution and I’ll wager that the food is just as bad (probably the same food services company—Open Can, Heat, & Serve SARL) and the labor would be harder.
It all started when I moved to France and became attached to a new family: my husbands. For them the worst thing that he could do is find an American to marry. My father in law is a communist of the 60’s revolution in France. And my mother in law is a rural provincial girl from a family that lost their old Francs in the grape business. Neither of them has left the country, and the only plane that they have ever taken is to Paris. Once. You can imagine the horror for them to think about a wedding in America: that would involve going there and, oh yeah, that you would have to know a few words of English -- which they don’t.
I am her worst nightmare because I can’t iron. Ironing is very important to a French MIL; you must iron from your panties to your sheets. I grew up in a place where you send your shirts to the dry cleaners for 2 dollars; they iron them, so why would I have to learn? One ominous day, she insisted that I iron something, so I hesitantly uncoiled the meticulously wrapped cord (everything is meticulously wrapped with MIL) and commenced to fire her up: stream frothing from the dragon’s mouth—that would be MIL, not the iron and the look of horror that crossed 
her face as she dashed across the room to remove the weapon from my hand. “Non, pas comme ça” with a heavy sigh knowing that her son was doomed for the rest of his life.
Also, I have had more than one career and that is outlandish in French society. How could one possibly change their métier? This means that I am a loose and wild woman. Not to be trusted with finances; never mind that I ran successful million dollar inventories in the fashion industry and designed luxury homes in Bel Air. I was not to be trusted with my husband’s 1,500 € a month salary. She wickedly tried to cancel our wedding location 12 days beforehand, hysterically crying and screaming, she told my husband that he was making the biggest mistake of his life (in front of me) because I refused to sign a prenuptial agreement that *she* had drawn up at the notaire. If I really was a gold digger, I would have married my previous boyfriend who was the heir to a large beer company, but then I would be writing about my Mexican MIL for Hola! Guadalajara instead of Bonjour Paris.
I have expat American friends who have way worse horror stories of their French Monster in laws, and, trust me, I have douzies that I could tell to make you cringe at the evilness that lurks in a neurotic French woman’s mind. Why is it that we are the “bad” women that take away their sons? What have we done to deserve this? Are they jaded from American movies that make us seem stupid and easy, with no culture and ethics? Perhaps. She calls every single day to ask what I am cooking for dinner, because she is worried that an American can’t cook. (Grandma calls to verify about a half hour later, because she doesn’t trust me to nourish her grandson well enough either.) My god, I teach cooking classes for Christ’s sake!
It’s a conspiracy. My husband was depositing a check from my father and the teller asked him, “Why do you have a check from America” and he said, “My wife is American” and she said, “What, you couldn't find one here?” This bank is in the village of my mother in law. See the eerie coincidence? Our 18 month engagement was considered “too fast” and scandalized the family name, so I am referred to as “the American” throughout town. It could also be that I wear my sweatpants to the grocery store. This is a huge “non-non” in French MIL society. You must be dressed from head to toe. “Even to go to the post office?” I ask. I have been guilty of walking to La Poste in my slippers. I’m smearing our name. How shameful of me. I can’t wait to dress my daughter in mismatching outfits and let her run bare-butt around the neighborhood. I will be the death of her without having to accidentally toss that hairdryer into her bath water.
