Mother-in-Law

I love my In-Laws. Not many people can say that and mean it, but I am one of the fortunate few. They are both very talented, intelligent individuals who have welcomed me into their family from day one. They are entrepreneurs who have run more than one successful business, and if ever I need advice, I know they are just a phone call away. I am very lucky to have found my way into their good graces.

This is not to say that we don't have our differences, as we surely do. We may not see eye to eye politically, and that's OK. We may not drink the same whiskey or root for the same football team or agree to drive domestic automobiles, and that's just fine. That being said, I must draw the line in the sand somewhere and state, for the record, that my Mother-in-law now has two strikes against her.

One morning as I was rummaging through a stack of CD's in order to select the soundtrack to my workday drive, I came upon a most offensive selection whose origin was unknown to me. Admittedly, I am somewhat of a music snob, although, in my defense, I can hardly help the fact that I have impeccable taste in this arena and that far too many people tolerate the inferior talents thrust upon them by the mainstream media. How else can the American Idol phenomenon be explained? Anyway, you can imagine the shock and horror I felt in my soul as I yelled to my wife, "Who brought a Kenny G CD into my house!?" I have a serious jazz collection and Kenny G does not play jazz, no matter what anybody tells you. He is soulless and self indulgent, and perhaps the reason that America's only original art form, jazz, is dying out. "I think it belongs to my mother," was my wife's response. I was mentally unbalanced for the rest of the day. Strike one.

This morning, I was doing my fatherly duty of reading stories to my wonderful children. They love books and being read to, and when I finish one story, they climb out of my lap and race to find another book. We go through half a dozen or so before my coffee gets cold and I have to stop for a refill. So, a couple of stories in, Ella returns to my lap with a copy of "Barney sees an insect". The prehistoric purple pre-school predator pretends to educate by stealing popular tunes and writing new and uninspired lyrics for them. If Sesame Street is John Coltrane, then Barney is Kenny G, and you know how I feel about Kenny G. Therefore, Barney is banned from my house.
And how did this book find it's way into my precious little girl's hands? "I think mom got it for them," said the wife. Strike two for the Mother-in-law.

It's true that these offenses are small in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps my passion for my children and for jazz has left me jaded and overprotective, but I will not apologize for that. I will instead remember that I love my Mother-in-law in spite of these faults, which are quite petty and ridiculous to anyone but me. I hope that when she reads this, she will forgive me for my objectionable opinions, and accept me for who I am so that I will remain her favorite (and only) Son-in-law. And I hope that Barney and Kenny G rest in peace in the landfill where they belong.