Mother-In Law Nude

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Mother-In Law Nude

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Faima Bakar Sunday 3 Feb 2019 11:55 am
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If you’re meeting bae’s parents for the first time, you’re likely to butter them up a little bit, saying things like ‘I can see where X gets their looks from’ and so on.
But chances are, your in-laws will probably take it as shameless flattery to get them on side so they don’t hate the person their child is dating.
One mother-in-law (MiL), however, took it all too personally. After developing an ‘unfortunate crush’ on her son-in-law, she didn’t try to cover up her feelings.
Instead of keeping her unfortunate feelings to herself, the mother-in-law decided to steal nude pictures of her daughter’s husband, barely covering up the evidence.
When asked why she would do something like that, she also said she couldn’t see what was wrong with it as it had been ‘just a picture’.
The son-in-law in question detailed the whole awkward situation on Reddit saying he was ‘f*cking pissed’.
The high school teacher from South Africa explained how he’d resisted all of the advances from his wife’s mum but she had persisted and that stealing the risque pictures of him was the final straw.
‘I’m feeling really violated right now. Wife and I have been together for a few years now. We’ve been in the habit of sending each other dirty photos since we were dating. It’s just a thing.
‘MiL has had the hots for me since she met me. It’s creepy. I’ve spoken to her about being uncomfortable and so has my wife. It seemed to have died down and we put it down to an unfortunate crush. She’s been creepy and flirty but we chalked that up to her personality since she’s flirty with everyone.’
However, the situation escalated when his wife and her mother were spending an afternoon together and once the daughter went to the restroom, the mum went through her phone.
Finding the gallery with intimate pictures of the husband, the mother-in-law decided to send them to herself. But the daughter noticed her phone had been moved and files had been sent and ‘blew her top’.
But the mother was barely remorseful and refused to delete the pictures. The husband was particularly worried about the nature of the pictures too.
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‘It’s f*cking awful. My wife and I have a few weird fetishes and so some of the photos I took that are for her eyes only are really humiliating if seen by people who aren’t my wife.
‘My wife is really on my side and supporting me but MiL sent her a message asking why she’s cross about it. ‘It’s just a picture’. I’m so mad.
‘We’re supposed to have her over for dinner this weekend because my wife’s brother and his wife are in town and I’ve disinvited her but now she’s telling people we’re alienating her. And because the issue is so embarrassing, I don’t want to tell people the real reason.’
Let’s hope the couple is able to sort out the awkward situation ASAP.


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Dear Abby: Mother-in-law going commando at night causes consternation
Dear Abby: Mother-in-law going commando at night causes consternation
DEAR ABBY: I have a wonderful mother-in-law whom I love very much. She frequently stays overnight in my home. I also have two young sons.
My mother-in-law recently mentioned to me that she doesn't wear underwear to bed and never has, including while staying at my house. I'm troubled by this because she wears nightgowns to bed, and I'm afraid my sons might accidentally see her lady parts. Also, she sleeps on my furniture like this, and I feel it is disrespectful and unladylike.
I don't know how to say to her that, for the sake of my furniture and my sanity, I need her to wear underwear to bed when she stays at my house. Do I broach this subject, or am I being unreasonable? — PROPER IN OHIO
DEAR PROPER: What your mother-in-law wears to bed is her business, not yours. Unless your little boys are playing peek-a-boo underneath her nightie, they won't notice — or care. How long is that garment anyway? If it reaches below her knees or to her ankles, there should be no "booty contact" with your sofa. In the interest of family harmony, I recommend you take a chill pill and leave the subject alone.
DEAR ABBY: I'm in love with a man who doesn't want us to be described as anything more than friends. We are together every day, and he knows I love him. We have sex, and I sleep over whenever possible. He wants me there all the time but with no status. Am I wrong for wanting more? Will there ever be more? — NAMELESS IN PENNSYLVANIA
DEAR NAMELESS: The answers to your questions are no and no. Your "friend" wants the benefits of being a lover and none of the responsibility.
Have you talked with him about this and how it makes you feel? You are not "wrong" for wanting more, but you are mistaken if you think that being at his beck and call is the way to get the commitment he seems to be so unwilling to make. You might have better results if you quit being so available.
DEAR ABBY: I'm recently married to my second wife. We have a great relationship, but I feel like she has a better relationship with my two daughters than I do. They do everything together, and my daughters don't want to do anything that includes me.
Part of me is grateful they have such a great relationship, but I'm also jealous that my relationship with them is not as good as hers. Should I say something? I don't want to ruin what they have, but I feel neglected. Am I being selfish? Should I just ignore it and get a hobby or something? — ENVIOUS IN THE EAST
DEAR ENVIOUS: I wish you had mentioned how old your daughters are. I see nothing to be gained by not discussing this with your wife. Parenting is not supposed to be a contest.
Your daughters may not mean to exclude you, but may assume you wouldn't be interested in the things they are doing or discussing. (I'm thinking of things females like to do together.) If you let them know you're sincerely interested in joining in some of their activities, you may be surprised at how quickly they include you. Also, set a standing (monthly) breakfast or lunch date — just you and your daughters — so you can spend some quality time together.
Dear Abby is written by Abigail Van Buren, also known as Jeanne Phillips, and was founded by her mother, Pauline Phillips. Contact Dear Abby at www.DearAbby.com or P.O. Box 69440, Los Angeles, CA 90069.

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I always thought any problems between my mom and me were my fault. Then my mother-in-law helped me through a rough time, and everything changed.
Looking back eight years later, I can see that something was wrong just moments after my daughter, Hope, was placed, pink and new, on my chest. Instead of love or joy, I felt panicked, worried we were already nursing failures two minutes in. Yet because my lead-up to motherhood had been nearly picture-perfect — a happy marriage, a wanted pregnancy, a birth so smooth my OB had said I should have a whole football team of kids — it took me several weeks to understand that while Hope was healthy, I was not. Eventually I could name it — postpartum depression — and begin to recover, but for a while it just felt like all the good parts of me had slipped away the day I gave birth.
My husband, Rich, returned to his long lawyer hours and two-hour daily commute a few days after Hope was born. My mother flew from Kansas City to my home in Los Angeles to help for three weeks, a period in which we both imagined I’d be getting better at this mothering gig, not worse. Mom was doing her part — changing Hope’s diapers and dressing her in gingham and florals with frilly socks and matching soft leather shoes. I, meanwhile, sat around a lot in my nursing gown and robe, crying or about to cry.
“I’m worried about you,” Mom said sharply one morning after she’d placed Hope in a bouncy chair festooned with teddy bears.
“I’m fine,” I responded quickly. “Lots of moms have the baby blues.”
Mom had steadfastly cared for my dad, my brother, and me since her early twenties. She rarely complained, but I thought I detected the toll this sacrifice took in the way she seemed happiest not with us, but at church or petting the dog or watching PBS. I tried to make things easier by hiding my troubles from her and sometimes even myself, but this time I was too weak to pretend.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have had kids,” Mom said on another one of those endless mornings after Hope was born, standing at my sink in her red capri pants and white Talbots short-sleeve button-down. She was mixing oatmeal for me, the spoon clinking accusingly against the ceramic bowl, her short dark hair falling just so.
Mom’s comment stung, but more than anything it told me two things: She was very worried, and she wasn’t going to be able to help me. Rich was concerned, but with him, as everyone, I didn’t know what was wrong or what to ask for. And I knew he needed to work, so I tried not to let on to him how bad I was feeling. I held out a glimmer of hope though that his mother, Teri, might somehow help return me to myself.
The same day Mom left, Teri arrived. At 53, just 20 years my senior, everything about my tall, dyed-blonde mother-in-law was soft — her body, her voice, her way of being in the world. The regular stuff of my life, from working at a magazine to the bright Gerbera daisy centerpieces at my baby shower, made her suck in her breath as if witnessing a mini-miracle. I found this both refreshing and naive.
That evening, Teri made soft clucking noises as she followed me around the house and in and out our sliding glass door to the backyard as I tried to nurse and settle Hope with little success. The next morning, I woke at 5 a.m., stumbled toward the nursery, and assessed from the doorway that Hope was still asleep. I walked a few feet farther to the small guest room. The crumpled white sheets next to Teri felt like an invitation, and even though I knew it was an odd thing to do, climbing into bed with one’s sleeping mother-in-law, it felt like it was either that or walk down the stairs and out the front door and never come back.
Teri opened her eyes, her thin hair strewn across the pillow, and smiled sleepily. “Well, hi, honey.”
“I don’t know what is going on,” I said quietly, running my fingers along the edge of the sheet, my eyes filling. “I don’t know if this is normal anymore.”
“It does seem pretty bad to me,” she said thoughtfully.
I was surprised both by what she said and how she said it. She was acknowledging a problem, a big one, but it didn’t feel like an indictment or even all that terrible, like it might with Mom. It was just the truth.
“I was depressed once,” she went on. “Before I decided to leave Rich’s dad. I would drive sometimes and think it would be a good idea to drive my car off Huntington Beach Pier.”
“I think about being in the hospital,” I whispered to the ceiling. “I think how great it would be to break both my legs because then someone else would have to care for Hope and no one would blame me.” I held my breath, waiting for the earth to engulf me for exposing this terrible secret.
Instead, Teri turned to me. “You’re going to get better, kiddo,” she promised softly, our blue eyes inches apart, as she rubbed my arm. “I’m not going to leave you until you’re better.”
I cried, this time out of relief, my tears soaking the sleeve of her white cotton nightgown with bitty blue flowers.
A few days later, my longtime doctor prescribed antidepressants and sleep, telling me that eventually I’d be OK but never the same because now I knew what it was like to be sick. Hope’s weight had dropped, so I switched to formula, which she happily gobbled up. Teri took the night shifts and she stayed awake all day, too, helping Hope and I find our way.
“Your mother is amazing,” I told Rich one night as we fell into bed at 8:30 p.m., giddy at the thought of several hours of uninterrupted rest. “When I married you, I never knew what a package deal I was getting.”
My mom was anxious for updates, and we spoke every day about Hope’s weight gain and our activities. Before she’d left, I’d asked Mom if she could return once Teri’s week was up. “I guess I can,” she’d responded wearily. But Teri told her boss she needed to stay another week, and that evening, I told Mom: “Teri can stay, so you don’t need to come.” Instantly, I regretted my words and the suggestion that I had Teri so I didn’t need her. “I mean, Teri’s OK,” I said lamely.
“Oh, I know,” Mom said matter-of-factly. “I know she’s nurturing like that.”
A year later, Mom’s breast cancer from decades past returned and I was pregnant again; it seemed that my Midwest roots and our moms were calling us home. My husband found work in Kansas City and we bought a house that was a 10-minute drive from Mom and Teri, our three homes forming an imperfect triangle on the map. Mom quietly began chemo treatments, and the grandmas traded off watching Hope and our new son, Gabriel, while I worked part-time as a freelance magazine and web editor.
I told myself a thousand times not to compare Mom and Teri, and then did it anyway. At 5 p.m., I’d drive up to Teri and her husband’s yellow house in the heart of a cul-de-sac and discover her and the kids in the backyard, dumping sand in a turtle-shaped sandbox. “We played cars and then were doing crafts at Renee’s and I looked up and it was 1:30!” Teri would exclaim, smiling at the memory of playing through lunch. “How was your day, honey?”
Mom, meanwhile, preferred to watch the kids at my house, and when I arrived home I felt myself tensing up. Something usually had gone wrong — the neighbor’s dogs barked during naps or Hope refused to wear socks or we’d run out of bread again.
I knew Mom was battling cancer and that was very hard even though she didn’t like to talk about it with me. And I knew things like sandwiches and socks were important to her. Part of me wished what I’d always wished when Mom was disappointed — that I could be a better daughter. But with Teri constantly offering up an alternate view in which me and my family were kind of like rock stars, I had what seemed a heretical thought: Could it be that the tension between Mom and me wasn’t entirely my fault?
I thought about talking about all this with Mom, how I loved Teri but I really wanted to love her better, too. But I didn’t know how, especially when we learned Mom’s cancer was terminal. I vowed to be more understanding toward Mom, to swallow my feelings for Teri because we had decades, after all, and Mom and I didn’t. Then, one early June day when Hope was 4 and Gabriel was 3, Teri turned yellow. The CT scan showed a mass in her pancreas and her doctor asked if he could pray with her and just like that, the fragile love triangle that existed between Mom, Teri, and I blew up. With both moms failing and up against the clock, I felt like I had to choose.
I told myself and others that I was so immersed in Teri’s care because no one else could understand Teri’s medical issues and advocate for her. Mom was a nurse, meanwhile, and had my dad, a radiologist, my brother, also a radiologist, and my aunt, a nurse, for support. But the truth was that I wanted to help and be with Teri more, and she wanted me with her, so I was. Whenever I thought about this, I felt equal parts warrior and betrayer.
Mom and I talked on the phone almost every day, and I saw her at least once a week, plus I talked or emailed frequently with family about her. But in the evenings, after the kids were in bed and the dishwasher hummed, my car drove mostly one direction: south to Teri’s. I’d show up in her doorway with McDonald’s shakes and we’d sit together on her bed, slurping and watching Big Brother or speculating about her oncologist’s personal life or laughing at the way Hope said “prentzel.” For a while, I thought I needed to save Teri — to find the right doctor, the right combination of chemotherapy — to prove that I really was the dream daughter she’d taken me for. But the more time we spent together, the more I realized that our kind of love was something you don’t have to earn.
I never knew who was going to die first, but in less than a year, Teri was gone. Two days after the funeral I felt exhausted and empty and ready, at last, to go to Mom. My family had been mostly understanding about my dedication to Teri, but occasional comments from my brother — “you only have one Mom, you know” — and my aunt — “You’re coming, right? Because I don’t think I can get her to the doctor myself” — made me feel that my loyalty was in question.
Mom smiled faintly as I entered her bedroom, her bald head wrapped in a pink terry-cloth cap.
“Can I sit with you?” I asked, and she weakly patted the spot next to her on the bed.
Over the next month, I moved in and out of Mom’s bedroom easily, helping her shift positions or lifting a can of Dr. Pepper from the nightstand and offering it to her, steadying the straw with my fingers. We flipped through Mini Boden and Garnet Hill children’s clothing catalogs, trying to surmise which tops the designers meant to go with which bottoms. “That’d look real cute on Hope,” she’d say thickly, and I’d dog-ear the page. Sometimes we held hands in silence, watching the shadows change on the wall.
I can’t say exactly why things were so different that last month before she died. I think at the end of her life and knowing I no longer needed to care for Teri, Mom was able to relinquish her rol
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