Here we (she) go (comes)

I told my mother-in-law that my house was her house, and she said, "Get the hell off my property."  ~Joan Rivers

She's coming again... Oh god! Not again.

I look at the smudges and tiny fingerprints on my windows, the build-up of dust on the propellers of my fan, the toy that's fallen behind the TV stand, the tangle of wires in my study and I know I will be judged on each and every one of them. I know it won't matter that I was going to get around to them. It won't be an indication of how busy and tired and stressed I've been - only exhibits A, B, C and D in proving the prosecution's case... in proving that I'm simply not good enough for her son.

Dread. I'm filled with it. I can never be comfortable when she's around. Four years of marriage later and I'm still so concerned about the impression I make. Wondering "what's expected of me" and "am I doing it"? Should I be waking up at 4am everyday like she does; toiling over a hot stove for hours at a time; on my hands and knees tackling wall-skirting grime?

It really grates me that, as a guest in my house, she never just goes with the flow of my household. Her way is not the way we do things; but by her every action she sends a constant and succinct message that, as far as she's concerned, it sure as hell should be. If that's not judgement, I don't know what is.

It doesn't help that - yet again - the visit coincides with the sudden departure of my son. There's a very dangerous association developing there - which I will choose to ignore for the moment (got enough psychological baggage to deal with as it is).

Four days to go 'til she arrives... *Cue deep, heavy sigh*