Jim Haefele: Progeny and Beyond

Tue, 20 May 2003 13:46:59 GMT

Yeah, yeah, you think your kids are cute and all, but look at this:

Reeve isn't even five months old, and here she is, reading a book her sister published.

Fri, 07 Mar 2003 16:01:33 GMT

Read It Again! Read It Again! Read It Again!

My daughter, who turns two in a couple of weeks, has always really liked books more than about anything else. Recently, she's on even more of a binge, and the two things we hear most often are "Read a book?" and "Read again?" She also spends a lot of time singing the alphabet song, which is cute and funny. For a while.

Like most parents, we've become experienced in the ways of children's literature. We know what we like, what we love, what Mercedes likes, what's funny, what's not, what holds up to one hundred readings a day (Dr. Seuss and Goodnight Moon) and what holds up to one thousand readings a day (absolutely nothing). Kids--or at least our kids--like to hear the same things over and over again. To our shame, we've found that we've had to react to this by sequestering some books temporarily. Some of these are not great books, but some are. For instance, Curious George is currently mired on the top shelf. As genuinely great as those stories are, if I had had to face the prospect of retelling the stories of the good-but-curious monkey and all of his wacky misadventures just one more time, I might have freaked out and torn the book right in half. George will make a reappearance soon enough.

There are some books that we have been forced to deal with in a more....severe manner. The simple fact is that some children's literature is flat out awful. It's either saccharine, or too simple, or just stupid. Melissa and I are avid readers, and we have a great deal of respect for books and literature. So when we decide to take a book, tear it into a thousand pieces, spit on it, burn it, use ancient voodoo curses on the ashes, and flush the remains down a Tunisian public toilet, we don't take that decision lightly.

We've received a lot of books as gifts, and we sincerely appreciate every one of them--most are great and in any case it's very sweet. So if you're the person who gave us "Yee-Haw! A Bear's Vacation," trust me that we really do appreciate the thoughtfulness, even if we'd like to see the author skewered alive with a red-hot poker. It's just that there's only so far you can go with the touching story of a family of Yellowstone bears who travel to the big city, where the adorable bear cub who cannot do anything without first yelling "Yee-Haw!" saves the city zoo with his stunning lasso skills.

How we dealt with "Yee-Haw! A Bears Vacation"

We have a subscription to Babybug, a periodic children's magazine that contains very short stories or poems or ditties or whatever accompanied by pictures. It's really aimed at kids that are younger than Mercedes, but she's had them for a while, loves them, and still brings the issues around to be read. What kills me about Babybug is that each "story" has a byline. For instance, one recent issue had the scintillating four-page tale of a young boy who helps his parents wash dishes, laundry, and himself. The text is as follows: "(page one) Wash. Dry. (page two) Wash. Dry. (page three) Wash..... (page four) and dry!" Obviously, this is a perfectly fine story for small children. You want them to match the pictures and the words. Sure. But was artist Karen Dugan simply unable to come up with the subtle-but-powerful text, or was writer Mary J. Davis so proud of the way that she'd arranged the three words "wash," "dry," and "and" that she demanded her own byline?

If there was one single trend that I would like to completely stop, it's the proliferation of actors and other celebrities who write their own children's books. Like most Americans, of course, I'm completely and totally transfixed by every waking move of John Lithgow, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Jewel. But do these people believe that because kids' books are generally pretty simple that anyone can write a good one? Or do they think that because they are famous and often are parents that they are worthy writers? Either way, publishing companies are going too far in allowing these books to be written. I understand that ALF has a book coming out.

The fact is that good children's literature is something to be relished and admired, and it is not an easy thing to write. I love reading with Mercedes, and I can't wait until Reeve is old enough to get into it. Especially because, by then, "The Collected Children's Stories of Tony Danza" will likely have made it to paperback.

Wed, 19 Feb 2003 20:28:15 GMT

A Little Honesty in Parenting...

God, I love my daughters. Sometimes so much that it hurts.

When my wife and I found out that she was pregnant with our first child, we went immediately to the bookstore and purchased several different reading materials for the pregnancy and the aftermath of that. I think most of the parents that I know purchased and read quite a bit about how to be a parent.

Many of the books have good advice, and we still refer to them, particularly for medical concerns.

However, I have come to the conclusion that the literature on parenting is fundamentally dishonest.

Why? Because these books universally play up the miraculous loving ecstatic joy that you'll feel about parenting and downplay--no, check that--ignore the fact that parenting is really fucking hard.

If I could, I'd write a preface to every parenting book that would read something like this:

"There is a lot of good advice here about how to be a good parent, and you should definitely read ahead. Pay particular attention to the markers for childhood development and the medical stuff.

Your children are going to be the light of your life. They will make you smile like never before, and feel things you've never felt, and often your love will be literally overpowering.

But it is extremely helpful if you understand some things as you get into this.

More often than we'd like to admit, things are going to be really terrible.

More often than we'd like to admit, you're going to get really, really angry.

More often than we'd like to admit, you're going to dislike your kids.

And, far, far more often than we'd like to admit, you're going to ask yourself the question, 'Was becoming a parent a huge mistake?'

You must be prepared for the fact that you're going to lose a lot of yourself in parenting. And sometimes you're going to have to give up any notion of control of these kids. And you're going to be damned tired. And while most days will be positive and lovely and awesome, some days are going to be absolutely bloody awful.

There's going to be crying, and screaming, and fighting sleep. And there's going to be a lot of repitition and cleaning up and a lot of boring stuff, too. And sometimes your kids will hit you because they want to test limits, and it is your job to resist the temptation to hit back.

And at those times you're going to ask yourself the question, 'Was becoming a parent a huge mistake?'

The book that you're about to read is going to talk about how your kids will cry and be difficult at times, and that with patience and love everything will be fine. This is largely true. Patience and love are the most important things, by far.

But something else is important, too: resignation.

You must be resigned to your fate. Your fate as a victim of your child's developing will. Your fate as a person identified first and foremost as a parent, and no longer as yourself. Your fate as a grownup. Your fate as a parent.

Most of the time, you will love your kids so much that attempting description is pointless.

But sometimes, you won't."

God, I love my daughters. They make me incredibly proud and happy, and I'm eager to see them develop and change and grow, and it's almost always fun.

Almost always.

Fri, 10 Jan 2003 11:29:17 GMT

It's early, as Reeve is only 5 days old, but it looks like we may have won The Parent Lottery, in which the winners get a baby that looooooves to sleep, and the losers get a baby with colic. Every parent plays. Reeve sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps, and last night her parents got to sleep for almost six hours in a row, which is no small potatoes with a baby this young.

But two nights ago was one of those "I'll scream as much as I want" nights, and it was coupled with a "I'll stay awake for as long as I'd like" nights from Reeve's big sister. So that was great. And it reminded me again of the annoying conflict that parents face in choosing a famous pediatrician upon which to rely to make all relevant decisions.

There are a variety of choices out there, but as it relates to sleep, it really comes to Dr. Sears v. Dr. Ferber. Sears v. Ferber. The Ali v. Frazier, the Lakers v. Celtics, the Kramer v. Kramer of pediatrician battles.

Parents know of what I speak.

For non-parents, here's the choice:

Dr. Sears advocates a virtual love-in with your child. He and his wife, a registered pediatric nurse, author books together, and have eight children. They're like rabbits. Dr. Sears argues for something called "sharing sleep", in which your kids stay in bed with you for as long as they'd like. Not as long as you'd like, but as long as they'd like. He says this fosters more bonding, better sleep for everyone, and more self-confidence because the kids know that they're loved. He says that they'll move out of bed themselves after a few (!!!) years, and be all the better for it.

It is well-known that Dr. Sears and his wife purchased the first ultra king double king king bigass king-size bed in order to sleep two adults and up to 21 adult children and grandchildren. They have no common room, simply a room-size common bed.

Dr. Sears argues, passionately, that having a child in your bed for upwards of three years need have no impact on your....ahem....marital relations. The Sears' are evidently proof of that. In Dr. Sears mind, when you're feeling randy you simply go elsewhere, be creative, inject some spice into it! For instance:

Father: You know, honey, even though we have this screaming toddler between us, I really feel like getting down to a little somethin' somethin', and I suggest the kitchen table!

Mother: No, no, that's so boring! Let's go out in the car, where things are really comfortable!

Father: Whatever, let's go! These repeated infant kicks to the torso are really getting me hot!

Dr. Sears is no Dr. Ruth.

Anyway, Dr. Sears, if I may generalize, says that parents should pretty much sacrifice themselves on the altar of parenthood in sleep and otherwise. He's a nice enough guy, but he pretty much totally ignores any of the downsides of putting your baby in bed with you. And there are downsides, I'll tell you--the Sears fantasyland isn't exactly a dream come true.

His mortal opponent is Dr. Ferber. Dr Ferber's basic deal is tough love for infants. He advocates letting kids cry themselves to sleep. Put them in their crib, check on them every few minutes, let them cry it out. Don't pick them up. Don't, for the love of God, put them in your bed. They'll learn to sleep.

Oh, they'll learn.

This is how I envision a Q and A with Dr. Ferber:

Q: Dr. Ferber, it makes me sad and nervous when my daughter cries for 8 hours in a row while I twiddle my thumbs in the other room, waiting for her to sleep. Is this normal?

A: It's a tough world, goddamnit , and she needs to learn that lesson. It sounds like you do too, you goddamned weakling.

Q: Dr. Ferber, it just doesn't feel right to me to let my child cry it out without trying to soothe them. What do you think?

A: "Feel" right? "Feel" right? I didn't realize that I was your goddamned therapist! Who cares how you feel? You want your kid to grow up thinking that every time things get a little tough, Mommy's going to show up and give him a hug? Is that what you want? Your kid going to start crying in some board meeting somewhere in 30 years, crying for his Mommy, and you're going to show up because that's what you feel is right? You make me sick.

Q: Dr. Ferber, I actually like to hold my baby, and I enjoy the intimacy of sharing a bed. She's only six weeks old. What should I do?

A: You should stop your goddamned pansy whining! Rent Patton, drink some Jack Daniels, and put the rugrat in the crib. Christ, what is wrong with you people?

It's a tough world, indeed, particularly for parents trying to negotiate the pitfalls of child sleep, and concurrently their own. We've largely come down on the sharing sleep side, but that doesn't mean we don't sometimes use Dr. Sears name in vain, and speak reverentially, in hushed tones, of Dr. Ferber.

Tue, 07 Jan 2003 13:23:47 GMT

We successfully had a baby in Tunisia, like millions of Tunisians everywhere. Our daughter, Reeve, was born this past weekend. Everything went well, and the key players are all healthy and fine.

We arrived at the hospital after something like 18 hours of labor. It had been relatively easy labor (if such a thing exists, and if a man has a right to say something like that), though tiring, with contractions sometimes as close as five minutes and sometimes as long as 15 minutes apart, and none so painful that speech was impossible. But they were accelerating a bit, and so we thought we ought to head in. We pulled up to the Polyclinique (ah, that fancy French talk--"Polyclinique" is just a private hospital, as contrasted with a "Clinique", which is a public hospital where they sell high-quality makeup products) at around 12:15 AM Saturday morning.

And it was dark. The front doors were locked, so we went in through the emergency room. There was no on in sight for a few seconds, but then an attendant sleepily came to the door to talk to us. A quiet hospital, in theory, means that one can expect more attention, because the staff isn't overwhelmed with patients. But I've got to say that I sort of prefer that the hospital have kind of a buzz around it--something to suggest that people are on top of their game, that they're busy saving lives and delivering babies and removing appendices and whatever else. I like my hospital to send a message: "This is a place where people WORK."

I felt like the message here was "This is a place where people SLEEP."

Now I should pause here and say that we were not in the slightest bit concerned about this. Our first labor and delivery were relatively uneventful, no real problems, all natural. There was nothing to suggest that this would be any different, and indeed ultimately it all went swimmingly. There's just a lot more confidence going into a second delivery if the first one went well, I think. And, on the whole, Tunisian medical care is better than adequate. I mean, I wouldn't have Lasik at the local shawarma stand, and if I had to get a hand transplant I'd probably go elsewhere, but it's fine.

They led us up to the labor room, which was also the room where Melissa and Reeve would sleep afterwards. The contractions were increasing in intensity, and dilation was accelerating. The doctor arrived at around 1:15 AM, and it looked like things were happening fast, which was good. But the pain was definitely increasing for Melissa, and she was leaning on me more as contractions came. This, evidently, was an ideal time for the staff to demand that I go fill out forms for admission. Apparently, they were afraid that we would dive out the door immediately after the birth without giving our names or paying. So I ran down to the desk, had a halting conversation in my terrible French before discovering that the staffer's English was far better, and filled in a couple of forms. All the while, I was nearly gagging on the cigarette smoke of the five orderlies sitting in the lobby. By the time I was done, about fifteen minutes later, Melissa was awfully close to being fully dilated. It was going to happen really, really quickly.

They wheeled her into the delivery room, which is really an operating room. The OR was probably the place where I felt the West v. Non-West contrast most acutely. The room was clean, but every OR I've seen in the States is sort of preposterously shiny and bright. This was a bit dingy, with oldish equipment and lights and such. This is the difference between the hundreds of billions of dollars spent on health care in the U.S. and the probably millions spent in Tunisia. With mysterious hooks and a burned out light bulb, I realized that if this place had had a canvas roof I would have thought that I was in the OR tent on M*A*S*H. I kept waiting for Hawkeye Pierce to come in and deliver the baby while BJ Honeycutt performed some meatball surgery nearby.

Our doctor was excellent, working with our needs and desires and taking good care of Melissa. And the nurse seemed to know her business, but her bedside manner was pretty awful. Cultural differences really played themselves out here. I don't feel like it's an unfair generalization to say that there are certain ideas about medicine and nurses and doctors that haven't made their way to Tunisia yet. In the U.S., medical staff are still godlike, but they at least increasingly have a sense that the desires of the patient can be considered as much as the needs of the patient. Here, they're at least a decade or two behind the West on the notion that the patient can control how things are done, or at least should be informed and have some say. Coupled with a culture that makes Arab women much more timid in the face of medical (and other) authority, this made Melissa a bit of a freak show. She knew what she wanted, how she wanted to labor, and what she wanted from the medical staff. The nurse didn't like this at all. AT ALL. She wanted Melissa to lie in this position, to not sit in that position, to do that, to not do this, etcetera. She didn't like it that Melissa wasn't lying down the whole time.

This played itself out most obviously when Melissa did lie down and the nurse reached--no exaggeration here--for the restraints so that she could strap her to the table. I may never have given anyone a nastier look than I gave to that nurse, and she saw it. The doctor waved her off quickly, and thankfully Melissa didn't see that little incident.

Again--this was an aberration in otherwise excellent care.

Another element of this whole scene was the language barrier. Melissa speaks passable French and excellent Arabic, the dominant languages in Tunisia. I have zero Arabic and only slightly more than zero French. So Melissa had to do the talking when it was needed. Pretty impressive to conjugate Arabic verbs while in the midst of the pushing phase.

Fathers are such an appendage during labor and delivery, and in addition to the standard level of uselessness, I couldn't even understand what was being said. I just stood there, drool pooling on the floor underneath my slack jaw. During our first birth, I actually felt like I was helping out, talking her through contractions, rubbing her back, doing whatever I could, and I genuinely contributed as much as I could, which is admittedly not much. This time, I was like some cretin standing by, watching everything unfold. Talk about an opportunity blown--if I'd been the one with the language, I could have been a contender! Instead, a cretin.

After Reeve was born, washed, and we were sent back to our room, (no nurseries here) we discovered the disconnect between care and service at the Polyclinique. The medical care was perfectly fine, if different. But the service? Yikes. For instance, at about 3:30 AM, an attendant offered Melissa a cup of coffee, which is every woman's dream an hour after giving birth. That was the beginning and the end of the fluids offered to Melissa. No water, no juice, nothing. No one came to check on the baby until the pediatrician arrived a few hours later, and only mildly more attention was paid to Melissa. This undoubtedly would have been different had there been any problems. But there weren't, al humdi l'allah.

We went home only about 12 hours after Reeve arrived in the world--they were pretty relaxed about that, which was a nice difference as compared to the U.S. Overall, the experience in the hospital was fine, the care adequate to good, the doctor excellent, Mistress Head Nurse surly. I'm glad nothing was out of the ordinary, but that's of course true no matter where one delivers a baby. I just hope they don't try and tie me down if I need to go to the dentist or something. Either way, we got a cute kid and a good story.

Sun, 01 Dec 2002 18:31:11 GMT

Too Cool for Two

Jim Haefele

I’m not ambivalent about my children. But choosing to have kids means more than becoming a caretaker for a baby--it's a fundamental identity shift, and it's not easy to come to grips with that. My wife Melissa and I are expecting a second daughter in January, and we’re looking forward to the next step with bottomless fear and uncertainty. I’m just a few months away from making a massive jump: I’m about to become a FAMILY MAN.

With only one child, it’s possible to continue to think you’re still cool. I may be thirty-one, balding, going to the gym too frequently for too little payoff, and carrying around more than a little disdain for ‘N Sync and Britney while yearning for Duran Duran and other musical wonders of the early 1980s. I may be able to name all four Teletubbies, and I might hum the theme song to Elmo’s World on Sesame Street on occasion.

But I’m cool, damn it! I can still go out with some of my hip, childless friends on nights when Melissa is willing to stay home. We can take advantage of people who actually want to baby-sit while we go out. I see myself as an independent, modern, youthful man, married to an independent, strong, cool woman. We’ve chosen to have a child to enrich our lives, but I swear we haven’t changed. We still h intend to see the world, drink good beer, watch R-rated movies, and stay up late. I am a liberated man, staying home full-time with my daughter, flouting conventions and having fun all the while.

You can still do many things with one child that you could do with none; it just requires a bit more planning. You can take the kid along for a lot of excursions. But two kids? It’s over, man. Want to go out to the bar with some buddies? Nope--can’t leave your wife with BOTH kids on a Friday night. Want to take some friends up on a casual offer to baby-sit while you go out for a nice dinner? Watch those offers dry up when diaper changing doubles and crying multiplies. Want to go out to a restaurant with two children under five in tow? Forget it. Rent a movie instead, and try to watch half of it before falling asleep at 7:45.

Of course, this entire neurosis is based on falsehoods--I know that in the real world I am not particularly hip. I do not spend much time at cool bars, I don’t have a cool wardrobe, and attractive young women are not checking me out. I would rather drink a good stout than multiple shots of anything, and the last thing I want to do is is go to a rave. Melissa and I have a ritual that we go through any time we look for a new place to live--we always consider the closeness to great bars or restaurants or other places to hang out, and then we diligently avoid any of those places.

Like everyone must, I have reached the point where I have to accept that I am a grownup. The second child is likely to be the catalyst that forces that acceptance, regretfully. Is being a grownup such a bad thing, though? There’s more money in being a grownup, that’s for sure. And being in control of my own life is nice--at least insofar as any parent of a toddler is in control of anything. And, despite my irrational fears of what it means for my social status, being a parent is truly awesome. It’s fun, and it’s incredibly rewarding, if overwhelming. Hearing my daughter say "Daddy" is far superior to drinking shots any day of the week.

Nevertheless, there are going to be times when I’m walking by the corner bar, and a bunch of super-cool twenty-somethings will be sitting outside on a nice weekend night, having a beer and laughing. And I’ll be envious.

But then my daughter will probably grab my hand and smile, and she might even grow up thinking that I’m an awfully cool guy.

At least until she’s thirteen.

Sun, 01 Dec 2002 13:36:21 GMT

The Ex-Factor

by Jim Haefele

They say that divorce rates are sky-high in our country--over fifty percent of marriages end before death does them part. That seems low to me; my extended family alone constitutes roughly 32% of divorces nationwide. Frightening but true: between the six children of maternal grandparents, there have been eight divorces. Using logical extrapolation, that puts the national rate at 133%.

And my family isn’t psychotic or anything, honestly. My aunts and uncles (and parents, for that matter) are kind, friendly people. They just don’t seem to do marriage particularly well. I wish I could understand the reasons; if someone would explain, it might help to ensure that my own marriage remains on track. I have no clue what the lesson is, but so far so good, so I’ll just roll with it.

The thing about divorce is that the aftermath is far too complicated for the children. My own parental situation is increasingly preposterous. My parents divorced amicably eighteen years ago, but remain close friends. They see each other regularly, and when I’m back in Kansas we often all get together. I’m pretty comfortable with this, though it is unusual and at times discombobulating.

I am thankful that they get along so well, actually. I can remember going to a “Divorce Workshop” not long after they split up. Most of the kids there had insane stories about one parent stabbing the other or somebody pulling a gun on somebody else or Dad burning down the house in a drunken frenzy after Mom hired an assassin to kill the priest Dad was having an affair with. At least I’m not aware of any weapons charges have been brought against any members of my family.

This weirdness is about to manifest in a new way--in January my parents are coming to visit us in Tunisia after their second granddaughter is born. They’re flying here, together, and then staying here for a couple of weeks. What in the world? How do I decide who gets the better bedroom? Do they share a bathroom? What is the code of behavior for this?

I think they’re actually relying heavily upon each other in order to get through the frightening experience of international travel; my father has traveled only a little in the military and then to Cancun, which is less scary than Oklahoma. My mother has never crossed the U.S. border. So I can appreciate that they want some support on their trip, but it’s like I'm taking my own trip to Bizarro World.

And then there’s the stepparents issue. My mother and father each remarried in the late 1980s. In the last three years, they’ve each gotten divorced again. I was pretty close to each of my stepparents--something else upon which to count my blessings. But they’re no longer stepparents; they’re ex-stepparents. How is this supposed to work?

This summer I found myself sitting on the porch talking to my father while he sat on the couch between my mother and my ex-stepmother. Dad and Colleen (my ex-stepmother) are both recovering alcoholics, each sober for just a few years, and they openly admit that much of their marriage was based on drinking together. And recovering alcoholics seem to rely heavily upon something my dad calls “drunk humor.” This leads to otherworldly awkward moments in which they laugh uproariously about how they got drunk repeatedly on this very porch and spilled liquor all over the place. While this would be awkward for any non-alcoholic to cope with, the fact that the conversation was occurring between my father and my now ex-stepmother adds a whole new level of unreality. And this doesn’t even address the fact that my father’s other ex-wife, who happens to be my mother, was sitting there too. I need to get a flow chart to keep this straight.

And then there’s the other time when my parents, my ex-stepmother, my sister and I were all having dinner together. The conversation took a Twilight Zone-turn when Colleen and my mother started laughing about dividing up the dishes in the midst of their divorces. Things like this are too weird to be shared with the children.

My now ex-stepfather is a whole different sort of deal. Less than two years ago, in the throes of a standard-issue midlife crisis disguised as “clogged chakras" and "spiritual journeys", he decided he no longer wanted to be married to my mother. Our relationship had really moved beyond parental and into the “friend” category, but few things can more quickly devastate a relationship than mistreatment of one party’s mother. I think he wants to continue our ties, but I don't know want I want, and in any case little has come of it so far. The whole situation certainly highlights how complicated these things get when real relationships are formed based on divorce and remarriage, and how painful it can be when those relationships have to end.

"What happens to the kids after my second divorce?" is a largely unanswered question in these divorce-ridden times. Think about it--someone comes into your life as a new family member, an authority figure on at least some level, and the most important person in your biological parent's life. And then, after a period of time, once you've established an independent relationship with them, once you forget that they're not a blood member of the family, it ends. What then?

I don't know how to answer that question. Ultimately the children of divorce have to make a choice about their stepparents and the level of involvement and depth of relationship that they will allow. I have a lot of friends whose parents are divorced, and some of those parents have been remarried multiple times. None of them go to dinner with their ex-stepparents. For the most part, in fact, they have no real relationship with those stepparents. I genuinely cared about my stepparents, however, and I still do. I'm glad that I made the choice to create real ties with them.

But what do I do when Mom and Dad get involved with another potential spouse? Do I protect myself by guarding my feelings, or do I risk another relationship? It's the classic poker dilemma--play tightly with few risks but smaller potential gains, or play fast and loose with more at stake, and thus more to win...and lose. Most importantly, what does that choice mean for my relationship with my parents? None of the friends that have no relationship with their stepparents have particularly enviable relationships with their biological parents, either. The decision about how close to get to stepparents is fundamentally a decision about how close I remain with my mother and father. I love my parents, and have close and deepening relationships with each of them. Stepparents or no, I want it to stay that way.

Who the hell needs these complexities? Isn’t life weird enough as is? Perhaps at some point in the future my parents will, in fact, each get married again. Then I’ll come home to see them together while my new stepparents go out for a nice dinner. Meanwhile, I’ll try and recruit my ex-stepmother to run interference with my ex-stepfather. With a family this hyphen-friendly, I just hope I don’t end up with an ex-wife. Though who could blame her for wanting to avoid a situation in which she has to make nice with ex-stepparents-in-law? Not her stepparents-in-law-to-be, that’s for sure.