The third date

Have I mentioned that we live with my in-laws? Classy, I know. It's not the first thing I tell people, but, you and me? Well, we have a three day relationship going on here, and I thought you should know about my living arrangements before we go any further.

So, again, I live with my in-laws. And in the interest of full disclosure, this is the fourth summer that I've lived with my in-laws. Tim's a student at a far-away-unnamed-for-privacy-issues university in the east, and he has a summer internship in an equally-unnamed-for-the-same-privacy-reasons company here on the west coast. Where his parents happen to live. And where they happen to have two occasionally empty rooms. And where they graciously let us live and feed us while we act ungrateful and blog about the ups and downs of bringing a family of four back in with the 'rents.

Generally, the free rent and the access to loving, free babysitters is an enormous draw, especially to two students who were, I admit it, irresponsible enough to welcome not one but two extremely expensive beings into their care without a way to support themselves, let alone buy diapers.

But the real reason we keep coming back is that every single year I hear "This is really the last summer! Really."

Well, you know what they say: fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me; fool me three times and I deserve the whining three-year-old screaming for special treats and Grandma.

Because this year Lana knows that there's a Grandma who gives chocolate milk to her cousins. And who makes french toast any time of the day or night. And who will happily lets her run through muddy puddles in her white lace dress with no mention of stain removal products. And lo and behold: this Grandma lives in the same house with us.

So Lana lives on chocolate milk and syrup and no one with ever learn their colors from looking at her clothes. Unless they want to learn about the color brown. Or about spots. Because those things aren't ever coming clean.

I'm ok with that. And actually, my mother in law Colleen (Sainthood pending) works really hard to keep boundaries.

The biggest issue is that occasionally, Lana knows that calling me by my name gets my attention a LOT better than "Mommy." And the parent formerly known as "Dad" is now "Tim" or even "Timothy" depending on her mood.

Ok, I'm new age enough that I can handle being called Amanda by my three-year-old. But if we're going to be equals, let's talk like equals. Politics, books, movies, decorating ideas, a recipe swap. Instead:

I am awakened with a stark "Amanda. I need French Toast." or "This hose is not on. Amanda."

And it spills past demands:

"AAAAAAAmAAAAAAAAAndAAAAAAAAAAA!" she yowls in pain with every bump.

Here's what I'm waiting for:

"DO NOT WASH MY HAIR, 'MANDA!" she says in the bathtub.

"Mommies wash their little girl's hair," I say.

"TIIIIIIIIII-MOOOOOOO-THY!!" she calls.

And then, when that fails, the inevitable: "GRANDMA!!!!"