Elisabeth

I can still remember the first time I met her. I had traveled to Switzerland for Christmas to meet my boyfriend's family. It was the first time I had spent Christmas away from my own family and my anxiety levels were off the charts as we rode from the airport to their home outside Zurich. Would they like me? Would I like them? Would we have anything in common? Would we be able to communicate? And, most importantly, would I come back from this trip with a ring on my finger?

She was waiting in the kitchen. Tall, impossibly thin, with perfectly coiffed jet black hair and the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen, she interrupted whatever cooking, baking, canning, cleaning she was up to, smiled warmly, and welcomed me.

I have never been so intimidated by anyone in my life. . .before or since.

My mother-in-law, who passed away yesterday, was truly one of a kind. In her eighty-nine years on earth she worked as a nurse, a seamstress, and a writer. Her home could have (and should have) graced the pages of House Beautiful. She almost single-handedly raised three boys, maintained a garden that would have turned Martha Stewart green with envy, and created culinary dishes worthy of a five star chef.

No wonder I was intimidated.

Our first encounter set the stage for the next thirty years. Seeing a romantic New Year's Eve listening to church bells ring as we stood overlooking a twinkling Swiss village as the perfect opportunity to pop the question, I was devastated that my eventual husband hadn't gotten the memo. Turning to the only female within view, I poured my disappointed heart out to my future mother-in-law only to have her respond with the less than sympathetic, "Last year he brought Nancy, this year he brought you, who knows who he'll bring next year."

That was my mother-in-law - always direct, always honest, rarely tactful. She spoke her mind and had an opinion about everything, which often led to someone's (my) feelings getting hurt. But over time, I saw her softer side and after I presented her with the one thing she always wanted, a baby girl, my standing in her eyes instantly elevated.

Over thirty years we grew to understand one another; to accept one another; to appreciate one another. Yes, she could be tough, distant, and stubborn. Yes, she could be infuriating and frustrating. But she could also be incredibly generous, extremely loyal, and funny as hell. Oh, and there was one other thing she never was. She was never, ever boring.

So, get ready, God. Put up your feet and grab a bowl of popcorn. Elisabeth is on her way. Be sure to ask her to make you one of her famous plum kuchen. You won't be disappointed.

And Two Shall Become One

It's hard to believe that our daughter will soon celebrate five months of wedded bliss. Seems like those champagne glasses were clinking just a couple of weeks ago. Although quite a bit of evidence remains that she once lived here (like that bedroom closet and the steady stream of mail with her name on it), she has moved most of her stuff out of the family homestead and settled happily into life as a married woman (and soon to be mom). It's hard not to have her around every day but I know she's found a partner that will love and care for her as long as he has breath in his body and who could ask for anything more than that?

The one thing I wasn't looking forward to dealing with once she said "I do" was having to share my child with another family. Oh, I didn't mind the idea that she would be having dinner or catching a movie with the in-laws every now and then, I just didn't want to haggle over who was going to get who for Thanksgiving or Christmas morning. I've watched my sister struggle with her sadness over empty holiday chairs and I knew I wasn't going to handle it very well. And the alternative? Melding the two families for holiday celebrations? Well, that worried me too. What if our traditions bit the dust? What if the new family's Thanksgiving stuffing sucked? Or, even worse, my girl liked it better than mine? Petty, I know, but this is the stuff that keeps me up nights.

Not to worry. Yesterday, the first big holiday since my daughter's wedding, we were invited to her in-laws for Easter dinner. Her second mama made a ham on the grill, laid out a beautiful table and welcomed not only my husband and me but our son, his girlfriend and my parents. Enjoying the first truly beautiful day of Spring, we sat out on their spacious deck, drank several glasses of wine, and shared our stories. We talked (and laughed) about our holiday traditions, our families, our jobs, and anything else that could comfortably be discussed in that kind of mixed company. (I'll have plenty of time to shock them with what I'm capable of talking about later.) It was surprisingly effortless and a whole lot more fun than I originally thought it would be.

And those traditions I was so worried about? I came armed with our world-famous Easter egg cookies and Mama #2 made her husband's favorite Polish sausage with sauerkraut (which my hubby eagerly devoured). I made a variation of my mom's revered mac and cheese and our go-to sweet potato recipe got a sensational make-over by the newlywed that had all of us asking for more.

When we packed up the leftovers and headed for home, it dawned on me that sharing my daughter with another generous, loving family that's almost as crazy about her as I am might not be nearly as hard as I feared it would be. The food was great, the conversation was lively and I didn't have a sink full of dishes to wash.

Always looking for that silver lining.

You Cannot Be Serious

Forty-eight hours ago, my husband, son, and I were helping my parents with some yard work. The sun was shining, the temperatures were in the upper seventies and I was a little bit tempted to break out the shorts.

So glad I didn't fall for that one.

It is now snowing. Snowing. Two days ago I was actually contemplating baring very white, not to mention hairy, legs to the world and now I'm sitting here watching frozen dandruff fall out of the sky on my poor little daffodils.

When is it ever going to end?

My hometown has a lot going for it. The pizza is awesome (despite what Jon Stewart says), Lakeshore Drive is breathtaking, and The Magnificent Mile is, well, magnificent. If it wasn't perpetually entrenched in the throes of a new Ice Age, Chicago would be a great place to live. If San Diego's weather could somehow be miraculously imported (c'mon, global warming - where the heck are you?), maybe I could even stop daydreaming about living in Italy. Okay, maybe not but I'm frustrated enough at this point to entertain such an idea.

All I know is, I've had enough. And I know I'm not alone. Even the die-hard winter fans I know have had enough. Spring, stop teasing us and get your butt back here.

And stick around this time, will you? Please.

The Taxman Cometh

Aaaah, Spring. Soft rain showers, colorful tulips, buds on the trees, temperatures (occasionally) above freezing. It's one of my favorite times of the year - a time of rebirth and growth; a time to come out of hibernation and join the world of the living. It would be just about perfect except for one teeny, tiny thing - the ever-looming Ides of April, the dreaded day of reckoning with Uncle Sam and his IRS henchmen.

Whenever I hear anyone talking about their joy at receiving their tax refund, I smile wistfully and try to remember those days. Refund? Refund?(As the cranky father in the movie Breaking Away would ask - I know it's an obscure reference but some of you out there might get it). What the heck is that?

The memories are hazy but I'm pretty sure there actually was a time when we did our taxes immediately upon receiving our W-2s; when we eagerly awaited that "found" money that arrived just in time to buy a new couch/TV/patio furniture. But those days seem very, very far away. Now, while others are out spending their interest-free bounty from the Treasury Department, we now belong to the club that does everything they can to stave off the inevitable "balance due" for as long as possible.

Today, knowing our return was going to be a little more complicated than usual, I finally got started. After several hours of number crunching, investigation into stock prices from 1983, and sifting through various 1099s, 1098s and several other 10 something or others, my head was ready to explode. Why does this have to be so hard? Why is the instruction manual 250 pages long? Why are my notes scribbled on multiple pieces of paper and as cryptic as hieroglyphics on some caveman's wall?

And why didn't we hire someone to do this a couple of months ago?