Haji Baby and the ungrateful wretch

Hamid's parents are in Kathmandu fom Iran this past week and next, which is great - I adore them both.
Hamid's dad, while of a seriously genius mental caliber, is hilarious and makes me laugh with his innate and charming ability to channel his inner child at will. He drfits in and out of silliness most naturally, in a way few grown men are apt to do; calling to his wife Hajieh in sing-song "Haji Baby!!!" as she moves about our kitchen preparing wonderful Persian dishes on our ridiculous two burner gas stove. How she manages to create these culinary masterpieces with such limited equipment is beyond me, but she seems to have imported herself all this way for the sole purpose of feeding Hamid and I three square meals a day.
Hamid's mom kisses me hello every morning and calls me 'Tessam' (my Tess) and 'baby'. She is generous to a fault asking me "You want?" every time my gaze lingers on anything for more than a second. She runs a close tie with my own mother as the most selfless person ever to exist in all of human history.

While they've been here they've spoiled us both rotten with lavish meals, gifts, and one entire suitcase full of the delectable dried fruit and nut assortments and sweets so common to Iranian tea time.

They've even indulged my latest habit of buying baby and children's clothes; supplying me with two darling tiny pairs of shoes I just couldn't take my eyes off in the store the other day. (Before we left India I bought entire closets full of lovely little traditional girl and boy wearables made of sari silk - Nepal's adorable hippie-patchwork style has also caught my eye and I've doubled my as-yet nonexistent children's wardrobes with locally handcrafted skirts, pants, hats and tops.)

Hamid's parents are quite simply the most dreamy set of in-laws one could ever hope for. They're supportive and kind and sweet and funny and completely pleased with me in every respect. This makes my life a hundred times easier than it might be considering the vast difference in culture and attitude that draws an unavoidable, invisible line between us. I'm Muslim now, but only so much...and I'm Iranian on one set of papers but still oh-so-American in every respect.

We're a real motley crew, mowing through rows and rows of shops in Nepal's old royal city of Patan; buying up Tibetan singing bowls and Nepali arts and crafts; Hamid's father dressed smartly in a suit, his mother in her scarf and manteau and me in my comparatively half-naked attire of sundresses or tank tops. Hamid's parents, while madly in love, have been socially conditioned not to display affection in public, while Hamid and I fall all over ourselves to get closer to eachother no matter where we are. Hamid and I are outright in our ideas, questioning, and opinions - appearing hyper and even wild next to his mom and dad who speak quietly and calmly, weighing their words before uttering a single one. But the happy reality is none of us cares much how the others choose to dress or act or speak or think. We're each in it for the simple experience of being together, practicing the art of being a family - philosophies and social skills aside.

But...and here comes the guilt-ridden, I'm-a-wretch portion of this post: it's so, so, so hard for me to have people in my house - messing up my nicely placed whatnots and mucking up my kitchen which is always sparkling clean because it never gets used and I know...I know how ridiculous it is to be rolling my eyes when Hamid's mom leaves the bottle of cooking oil out on the counter instead of keeping it neatly hidden in the cabinet the way I like it. After all, she's the one cooking 24 hours a day, who am I to complain; treated as an honored and pampered guest in my own home. But six days of sharing space with people who've been around twice as long as I have and by default take precedence in the hierarchy is simply exhausting for the control freak in me.

I'm a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad daughter-in-law but it drives me crazy when I come downstairs and see that all of my plants have been moved outside into the garden (after I worked so hard lugging the darn things in in the first place) or find laundry hanging on the main floor balcony where everyone and their cousin can see it instead of on one of the third floor balconies where it doesn't mar the beauty of the view of the house from the street.

These things I get stuck on are meaningless. Pointless and shallow - and I'm perfectly aware of how very ungrateful it would appear if I let on at all; so I say nothing and smile until the urge to put everything back 'where it belongs' passes. Instead of freaking out when the giant package of toilet paper ends up on display somewhere in the house or my carefully chosen kitchen towels turn up sopping wet and goopy I remind myself that these are the people who have willingly, lovingly given me everything they have to give and then some, including their first born child.