Asking Maria to marry me was the easy part. Winning over her parents was trickier. It would be a while before I could call my mother-in-law what I do today.
My mother warned me: Marriage is a family affair. As soon as you wed, she told me, you’re plunged into someone else’s family system, rife with its own characters and subplots. The part Mom left out was that before I married my bride’s family, I had to court them.
I had already begun courting Maria, of course–and successfully, too. We’d fallen in love. The time had come to Meet Her Parents, something I’d avoided so far, thanks to geography–we lived in Minneapolis, her parents in Tampa, Florida.
When my (hopefully) prospective in-laws came for a visit, I was already primed with details. Maria’s father, Jaime, is a physician. So are two of her brothers. I was a schoolteacher at the time. Maria’s mother, Jacqueline, had played field hockey and tennis and been a champion javelin thrower as a young woman. I hadn’t even lettered in high school. Dr. and Mrs. Frias are originally from Chile. Maria’s previous boyfriend spoke Spanish. I imagined him and Jaime sipping pisco sours, conversing about cigarros and boxeadores. I don’t drink, and my high school Spanish? Nada.
Feeling nervous, I drove to Maria’s apartment, where the Frias were staying, to meet my fate. As I knocked, I realized I still hadn’t resolved the tricky question of what to call them. “Dr. and Mrs.” Was polite, but sounded too formal. “Jaime and Jacqueline” seemed much to forward.
Mrs. Frias/Jacqueline answered the door. “Mucho gusto,” I gushed, sidestepping any appel- lation. She greeted me warmly in English. With a British accent. Oh, boy, did I have a lot to learn about this couple.
Jacqueline had made dinner, and she was an excellent cook. We feasted on empanadas and her specialty, mil hojas, a multilayered cake with caramel flavoring. Jaime (not that I was calling him this–or anything else–yet) was an engaging storyteller, regaling us with his humorous travelogues.
Afterward, Maria walked me to my car, “Well, what do you think?” she asked.
“They’re great,” I said. “Easy to like.”
It was true. I got lucky. Now I just had to convince them the same was true of me. I decided to woo them the way I’d wooed their daughter: with humor, kindness and cooking.
On the next evening of their visit, I prepared dinner for them at my house. I washing dishes, plied them with jokes. Months later, when Maria and I visited them in Florida, I practiced my best manners and lent a hand with household chores. It seemed to be working. At least, they didn’t leave when I entered the room.
Perhaps Jacqueline noticed I had yet to address her or her husband by name, because at one point, she slipped me an article on how to be the perfect son-in-law. (A hint?) “Unless they suggest it, don’t call your in-laws–especially not your in-laws-to-be–‘Mom’ and ‘Dad,’” the author advised. “Try something else, like ‘Hot Lips’ and ‘Big Guy.’” Had Mrs. Frias actually read this?
Whatever I’d call them, I had to figure it out soon. My talks with Maria about marriage had moved from the third-person hypothetical to the first-person possible. The stakes were mounting. Maria’s brothers, my own brother and my sisters’ husbands had asked permission of their future “Big Guys” before proposing. I didn’t see any way around it.
So I took a deep breath. “Thanks for letting me read this, Hot Lips,” I said to Jacqueline, when I returned the article to her.
She gave me a funny look, but laughed as I explained. “Guess I asked for it!” she said.
I tried out Jamie’s new nickname later than evening, during a break in the video we were watching. “Can I get you something to drink, Big Guy?” “Diet Coke, Budda,” he said, not missing a beat. I wasn’t in the clear yet.
Still, the time had come to pop the question. During another of the Frias’ visits, I cooked an elaborate meal. As we’d planned, Maria moved to slip away, under the pretense of having left dessert at her place. Big Guy offered to accompany her. He didn’t see why she should go alone till Hot Lips’ foot connected with his shin under the table.
Finally, I was alone with Big Guy and Hot Lips, fumbling with my napkin ring. This was it. My moment of truth. I rehearsed the words in my mind: “As you know, I’ve grown quite fond of your daughter. I’d like your blessing to marry her.” Sounded corny. The whole moment was corny. I wished I’d gone with Maria.
Thinking of her put my eyes back on the prize. Ah, the things we do for love. I spoke the words in my heart–they didn’t sound so bad once they were out.
“We’d be delighted,” said Big Guy.
I relaxed my grip on the napkin ring.
“This calls for a toast!” Hot Lips said.
When I officially proposed to Maria two weeks later, she said yes, too (of course). Hot Lips and Big Guy were the ideal in-laws-to-be–supportive, generous, non-intrusive. They only insisted on one thing: When it came to wording our invitations, Maria and I were to use “Dr. and Mrs.” But I was free to toast Hot Lips at the reception.
© John Rosengren