They have sharp tongues and eagle eyes. They often employ a cleaner to deal with the more mundane tasks in life. Group Two members are a cross between Wonder Woman and slave. Their homes are spotless, their kitchens always have a surplus of delicious food. Perfectly capable family members become unable to fend for themselves when they’re around, and they do their best to provide for them all. They perform all their duties happily and rarely seem either downtrodden of resentful. My mother-in-law falls firmly into Group Two. In fact she is essentially the pinnacle of perfection as far as Group Two members go.My first visit to Turkey was almost six years ago. I came for the express purpose of meeting my future mother-in-law. I was pregnant at the time, so I managed to bypass the you’re-not-good-enough-for-my-son issue in one fell swoop. As far as she was concerned, a baby meant marriage was inevitable, and I was welcomed as a new family member albeit a foreign (read “stupid”) one. She was suspicious of me, but covered it up with such effusive hospitality and politeness that I barely moved for two months. I did no cooking, no cleaning, no laundry and no dishes. I would have helped. I wanted to. I kept trying to clean up after meals, but by the time, I made it to the kitchen (three-and-a-half seconds after we finished eating) everything was already spotless. When I returned to the UK, I spent the first three weeks rushing around in circles cleaning everything I could -- my house, my friend’s flat, the Indian lady’s home next door. Extreme idleness didn’t suit me. Then. Now I have two kids and a husband who still hasn’t unraveled the mysteries of the dishwashers (turn dial to “wash,” push big button) and a life of idleness seems more than a little attractive.
Strange though it may seem, one of the most helpful things in these early days of getting to know my new “mother” was my total lack of Turkish. I had a vocabulary of precisely five words I’d picked up from my husband: “deli” (crazy), “eşşoğleşek” (donkey), “Lan!” (Oy buddy!) and “sibop” (no known translation). I had a sketchy grasp on what these words meant and my (not yet) husband’s instructions that I shouldn’t use any of them in front of his parents (how handy). My mother-in-law spoke no English (she still doesn’t), but had a smattering of German. Having studied that language for two semesters 10 years previously, I was equipped to tell her that “I have a flower shop” (lie) and that “I have short blond hair” (also untrue). However, all was not lost. I am beyond brilliant at charades. Seriously. I am the person you want on your team. I’ve been known to guess gems like “the Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky” from just an eyelid flick and a slightly upturned elbow.
We laughed often. She explained to me the dangers of going out with wet hair (it makes you highly susceptible to the bubonic plague), why the lady with purple hair and a feather boa was tottering about in a farm (celebrity big brother goes rural) and how I should always, always wear slippers (there’s not enough space to list all the bad things that will happen if you don’t). She gave me bulmacas, poğaça and Nescafé. She intuitively understood that where coffee is concerned, my priority is not that the cup has a matching saucer but that its volume exceeds that of the average bathtub. She whizzed around doing what she does best: cooking beans for 550 guests (only four of them actually expected) and removing dust with some kind of magical homemade cleaner (I think lemons were involved).
Of course when you are welcomed into a family because you are pregnant, eventually the day comes when the baby has emerged and he becomes their primary concern. You are a concern only so far as you keep the baby healthy. This was the point when our lack of a common language came into its own. The Turkish way of raising children is a little different from the English way. “If you don’t wear slippers, your breast milk will dry up,” she said through charades. “The baby needs six fleece blankets pulled up over his face and the room kept at 40 degrees Celsius.” “If he doesn’t wear socks, his hair will fall out!” As charades is infinitely more difficult when your baby is disabling both your arms, I got my husband to teach me a new word “hayır!” (no!), and that was the end of the discussion. Fortunately, my sockless son remained in robust good health and remarkably unspoiled. I lost my status of crazy foreigner, and we bonded afresh.
I think I finally charmed my way into my mother-in-law’s heart when after our first year she and my father-in-law decided they weren’t getting enough out of their retirement in Ankara and decamped to the coast. She returns every winter for an extended visit of four months or so and spends nearly the whole time at our house. Unlike every other family member who welcomes her into their home with a three-foot list of tasks they’d like her to do, I never want her to do anything. Unless she wants to. She loves cooking, cleaning windows and settling back to watch Turkish TV with a vat of tea and her knitting. I’m more than happy for her to indulge her passions. I explained to my husband that this is what she likes to do. That she often even has a little nap while the TV blares in the background. He was shocked. He had no idea his mother ever sat down during the day.
Six years on from those early days of advice, food and soaps, I am my mother-in-law’s biggest fan. I don’t know how she makes everything so sparkly. I have no idea how she creates entire meals from an onion, a spoon of tomato paste and half a packet of lentils. I do know for a fact that the iron likes her best and always works much better for her than me. The amazing job satisfaction she gets from being superwoman is beyond my comprehension. But I know for sure that when my husband grows up, I want him to be just like her.
