Wild type women and the human comedy. A breakfast vignette.
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I heard the toot toot of a recorder from the stairway as I was eating my oatmeal this morning. "Good morning, Marianna." She likes her horn.
She came over and sat on my knee, asking for some oatmeal. This is our morning ritual when we can get away with it. I talk to her and feed her as I eat oatmeal myself.
Grandmother Nadia's first words coming downstairs were of disapproval. I should not be feeding Marianna. I will give her my germs and we won't know how much she had to eat.
I gently said that discord is no way to start the day. Marianna and I are happy. Let her eat. Since I'm nominally the head of the household, she lets it pass.
This illustrates a difference in beliefs. Nadia and Oksana hold superstitions about microbes. They believe that I will somehow infect Marianna by sharing a dish and a spoon. They are not even interested in my questions as to which dangerous microbes I might have, and if I have them, why they would be transmitted by sharing the spoon instead of by contact, through the air or whatever.
Oksana and Nadia always demand to know how much the baby has eaten. They never write the information down or act on it in any way. They are not content with my simple opinion that the baby will eat as much as she wants and then stop.
Marianna gets a balanced diet. She will get a few nibbles if I'm eating bacon and eggs, and I will put up with tsk tsks to the effect that fried stuff will be bad for her stomach. Last night I was pleased to see that she got some salmon fettuccine. Pretty rich stuff, and she loved it.
Marianna also gets whatever she can swipe. Last night I was eating a dried mango as Grandpa Sasha gently collapsed as the two women helped him in an attempt to reach the bathroom on crutches. While I was in the bedroom getting him to his feet (foot), Marianna pushed a chair up to the kitchen table and made off with my mango. No reprimand – I'm pleased that she takes care of herself and likes fruit.
Speaking of the table, the wild type women let the baby sit on the table. This is where my superstitions kick in. I worry she will push crockery over the edge, which does in fact sometimes happen, or she will grab a knife the wrong way and cut herself. That has not happened in this family, but it did to my brother and my grown son as they were growing up.
This little vignette goes to my wild type women theme. Their minds have been cluttered with unsubstantiated beliefs about microbes, nutrition, and other stuff like that. I can't really complain – superstition is the human condition. I count my blessings that they have not been poisoned with beliefs about "safe and effective" jabs, the efficacy of masks, or global warming.
The best I can hope is that they will respect that I see things differently and not give me too much crap. Actually, I do win a few battles. They used to put Marianna's food through the blender and make sure it was microwaved to about 80° before feeding her. Now they let that stuff go. It is a boon to me because I don't have to fish dirty blender jars out of the sink or refrigerator and wash them before I start cooking.
It's the stuff of which life is made. That's a short post from Lake WeBeGone, where the strong men have to approach life with a sense of humor, the good-looking woman does have the gift of being able to laugh at herself, and the children are drinking it all in, preparing for their roles in the human comedy.
The Soviets when they took over Russia and Ukraine had uneducated and ignorant peasants as their new subjects. They thus focused on basics: they taught them simple sanitation, like hand washing, brushing teeth, and along with this instilled a fear of microbes. My ex has infected our daughter with the need to wash her hands, especially after coming into the flat from the outside. It's Soviet training. They insist that children should not eat straight from the fridge. Children should get fresh air even if it's 40 degrees below zero. The outside world is a dangerous place; they should be dressed for Siberia. But they microwave food? That seems far more dangerous to me.
We never had a need to wash our hands when I was a boy in California. Not unless they were muddy from playing in the culverts or drainage ditches.
The problem for you is that mother-in-law is certain that you are going to kill the baby. You're a man; you don't know shit about kids, right?
Yeah, the wild women are trying to maintain feelings of control. It's good they don't put the baby's food in the microwave anymore--it depletes some of its nutrition--not to mention microwaves leak radiation. I measured mine with an emf meter and it appears to be safe beyond a few feet. I use mine occasionally, but stand behind the refrigerator in order to avoid fallout. : )