lawyer

My son-in-law (Sil) offers to pick me up in front of my hotel in Boston at 7:15 a.m. to drive me to his law office 8 minutes away. He promises that I can then drive his new Lexus hybrid to the suburbs 40 minutes west, where his wife (my daughter) and kiddies live.

He texts me 10 minutes before he arrives so I’ll have time to hop on the hotel’s busy elevator and meet him outside the lobby doors. I wear my black jogging pants and a long-sleeved yellow sweatshirt, so bright it can burn eyes, like looking at the sun too long. I don’t want him to miss me.

I step out of the wide doors into the taxi-laden street just as Sil pulls up. He jumps out of the car, stating, “You might as well drive me to the office, then just drop me off and go on your way.”

I’m thinking he wants to see how well his mother-in-law handles his precious car.

But Sil is staring intently at a man walking by, in his 50s, professional-looking, suited for business. “Hello Judge,” Sil shouts out, friendly-like.

The judge stops mid-pace and walks over to Sil and me, and Sil immediately introduces me to the judge as his “Mom-in-Law from California.”

As the Judge shakes my hand he peers straight into my eyes and says, “This guy is one of the finest lawyers I’ve worked with. He’s always prepared and organized.”

Without skipping a beat I respond, “Well, I’ll tell you a secret about him.”

Poor Sil’s face loses color – he never knows what to expect from me.

The judge leans in.

“He is the finest son-in-law I’ve ever known.”

The Judge smiles, shakes Sil’s hand, and departs.

Sil shakes his head in wonder. “That judge is harder on me in court than any other one in Boston. How’d that just happen?”

“Karma.” I answer, wisely. “You pick up your mother-in-law in front of her hotel and let her drive your Lexus…

And

Good Things Happen.”

Happy Birthday to my Wonderful, Karmic, Generous and Kind Son-in-Law!

He begged me to help, so I crawled out of my warm suburban bed at 6 a.m. to drive the 45-minute trip to the other side of the universe – Boston.

“The baby’s sick,” my son-in-law explained to me during the early morning call with a voice as desperate as a new father’s can be. “Neither of us can miss another day of work, and I have an 8 a.m. court case. Please, Madre, can you help?”

Since the birth of my granddaughter, I had changed from “Pam,” to “Madre,” and I was still coping with my new image. But I hopped into my car and joined the commuters in the bumper-to-bumper early morning traffic.

“I am grandmother, hear me roar,” I exclaimed to myself as I walked the five frigid blocks from the car through the narrow city streets to the tiny townhome. My empathy and desire to help was unlimited until I knocked on the locked door three times with no response.

With frozen fingers I pushed buttons on my cell phone and called my daughter, who was already half way to her teaching job.

“Your husband is not answering the doorbell!” I shouted in a sweet grandmotherly voice.

“Oh,” she replied, honking simultaneously at some crazy Boston driver. “He probably fell back asleep. Pound on the door, or try his cell phone.”

“WHAT?” I screamed. She hung up, so I pounded to no avail. Then I blew on my fingers so I could press the cell phone buttons to call him.

Twice.

No answer.

My Madre-ness was receding into pure unadulterated bitch. I checked my watch. 7:15. What happened to the important court case?

I hit the doorbell with my now numb digit and didn’t release. Finally, the dog barked, and son-in-law opened the door, bleary-eyed and yawning, wearing beat-up shorts he had obviously just pulled on.

“Oh!” he said.

The baby began to cry from her crib.

“Thank god you’re here!”

I smiled like a saint. I decided I’d just guaranteed no bad mother-in-law jokes from him, ever.