I never liked the idea of arranged marriages. Until I had my own children. I used to go to playgroups and scout possible future dates for my boys. Oh go ahead and judge me. But before you do, consider this. Social Security will be dried up, this debt ceiling mess will be even worse, and 401K’s and pension plans will barely cover your basic necessities.
My point? I need daughters-in-law. Really good ones. Boys are wonderful, but who knows when they’ll be back to visit? When they say, “See you later” they mean later. Like anytime later.
I got so frustrated with the boys one day I told them I’d had it with their whining. “When you get your own house, I’m coming over at 6:00 in the morning and I’m gonna pee in my adult diaper and whine and cry, until you let me in and feed me cereal!”
“That’s just gross,” Max said with a look of disgust on his face.
Naturally, Miles had to add his two cents. “I’m not gonna let you in. I know how old people smell.” Under the bus! That response confirms my belief that I’m not gonna be in some no-name nursing home, sitting alone in the hall while the underpaid caretakers pass me by.
One of my brothers has already advised me to get in good with my sons’ girlfriends. Makes total sense to me. He’s got three boys and a Ph D, which is a winning combination in my book. But I took it a step further. I’m thinking if I find suitable mates for the boys, I can be sure to get good daughters-in-law! Then I won’t be sitting alone on the nursing home hallway.
Ultimately, the boys will choose their own mates. But I’d be crazy not to try to influence them a bit. I mean I’m not just gonna pick any floozy. These are my boys for goodness sake. I have guidelines. They have to love my boys, be nice, smart. All that good stuff. But they cannot put me in a nursing home. Well, maybe that’s inevitable. But they have to visit me-and get me out of that hallway!