Parenting

Inherited Love, Acquired Like

After a wedding, you don’t just gain a son- or daughter-in-law. You gain a brand-new human you are now morally obligated to love, whether or not you’d voluntarily spend three hours in a car alone with them.

You love your kid. You love the person they chose. The spouse becomes an extension of your child, like an emotional annex. You don’t need a sociology degree or any other “-ology” to know that doing right by either of them is a good long-term investment. Love one, love both, everybody’s happy, Hallmark can roll credits.

But “loving” the new spouse does not automatically convert to an immediate “like.”

For the purposes of this little ramble, love means treating the spouse with the respect and honor your child would appreciate. They’re married now. They’re one. Your treatment should reflect that, whether or not you fully understand every choice this delightful new person has made and will continue to make with great confidence.

Like is different. Like is earned. Like is slower.

“Fake It” And Then What?

There’s that old line, “Fake it till you make it.” With in-laws, it becomes: fake it until you really love them. The initial love is inherited—you love your kid, so their spouse gets swept into the coverage area like a dependent on a health plan. Basic kindness and benefit of the doubt, grandfathered in by your affection for your child.

The “spousal like” is acquired. It’s not instantaneous. It shows up in oddly specific moments. You know you have it when you’re both stuck in a car together and the conversation just keeps going—serious to stupid, jobs to movies to “what is wrong with that guy’s driving?”—and you realize you’re not just being polite anymore.

Then there’s the social setting version, which is its own beast. One-on-one is not the same person who walks into a party. For some of us, parties are draining. A room full of small talk feels like being slowly pecked to death by well-meaning ducks. Give me a corner, a chair, and one solid conversation partner.

My married son is far too extroverted in a group for my taste. He works the room like he’s on a campaign trail. But he knows his dad, so we can drop out of the noise and settle into something real—serious enough to matter, sarcastic enough that it doesn’t turn into a lecture series nobody registered for.

The Introvert Who Won My Heart

My daughter has been married almost four years to an introvert. He doesn’t give you a lot to work with. Conversations are never hard, but they’re not the same elastic back-and-forth I have with my kids. More pauses, fewer punchlines, less verbal jazz.

But he won my heart anyway—by how he takes care of my granddaughter and looks out for my daughter. I wouldn’t volunteer for a ten-hour road trip with him. But I know he puts the women in his life on a pedestal, and that matters more than whether he appreciates my running commentary on the state of the universe.

That’s a kind of like that grows from watching, not talking.

The Many Versions of a Daughter-in-Law

My son’s new wife is a different kind of story entirely.

First she was simply our son’s girlfriend. Then the woman he wanted to marry, from another faith tradition—which added some complexity and a few extra conversations. Then she got baptized, and she became our future daughter-in-law in a much more layered way.

On top of all that, she spent the better part of this year as a near-aunt to our granddaughter, a doctorate candidate who crossed the finish line one week before walking down the aisle, a bride planning her dream wedding on a budget that kept shrinking in her imagination, and a person who loves her life in Oklahoma while missing parts of the family and culture she grew up in.

That’s a lot for one person to carry, and she carried it without visibly unraveling—which, having watched the whole thing unfold, I find genuinely impressive.

Now the wedding is over. Real life starts.

I’m looking forward to the spouse she’ll be once the adrenaline settles. I’m looking forward to watching them build rhythms and traditions and eventually a family of their own. And selfishly, I’m looking forward to the car ride where the conversation bounces between serious and sassy and neither of us has to work too hard at it.

But even if we never become natural road-trip buddies—if the rapport stays warm but never quite effortless—I’ll still be grateful if she loves my son well. If his heart got handed to someone who’ll protect it carefully for the rest of his life, she’s earned a lifetime pass.

She’s just starting. So are we, honestly.

Values Don’t Retire

My wife and I are somewhere in the foothills of retirement. Not even close to the summit. There are still detours on this road, and honestly, we keep choosing them. We could draw a straight line to the finish — coast, let someone else worry about the spring weather.

But here we are, babysitting a ten-month-old and still figuring out health insurance. And I wouldn’t trade it.

Faith Is a Verb

Every time our kids gather around the table, we say a prayer. That’s not a performance — it’s just what we do. Faith comes up again before the meal’s over, usually more than once. We counsel our kids, married and unmarried, on building something with a Godly foundation. But we learned a long time ago that advice requires a listener. Acting on it? That part belongs to them.

We’re conservative Christians. We attend a church that reflects that — not perfectly, but pretty close. Our kids know where we stand. They also know we can’t believe for them. My granddaughter, as much as I adore her, will have to find her own faith someday. Her parents’ belief won’t carry her across that finish line, and neither will ours. What we can do is make sure the example exists. Doing nothing, after all, is the easiest thing in the world to imitate.

The Tangible Stuff

I’m not going to pretend grandparenting is purely a spiritual exercise. My granddaughter needs a babysitter, and I technically have “spare time” — though I’m not sure where I’m hiding it. My wife works remotely, so we tag-team diaper duty in shifts that would make any grandparent proud.

And yes — her job keeps us from raiding our savings for insurance premiums until we hit 65. These aren’t just financial decisions. They’re the quiet argument I make every day to my kids without saying a word: this is what showing up looks like.

Respect Isn’t Political

Everyone has value. The prisoner. The foster kid. The garbage man. We did foster care for six years — that wasn’t a hobby, it was a conviction. The political lines blur for me here. But the bottom line is simple: treat me and my country with respect, and I’ll meet you with kindness. As a Christian, at a minimum, I owe you a prayer. We’re all sinners. Just not all saved.

Generosity Without the Receipt

Could I give more? Absolutely — most of us could, and I’d be a fool to claim otherwise. We give to causes, including our church. Our kids know we give. They don’t need to know the number. The impression matters more than the invoice.

Commitment Is the Whole Game

Marriage is the biggest bet most people will ever place. We’re honest with our kids about it: it’s not easy. It requires two people willing to grow up and reckon with the fact that their decisions now affect someone else’s life, too. We hold an old-fashioned view on this. A marriage with a Christian foundation is simply better, in our experience. That’s not a lecture. It’s just what we’ve lived.

The Promotion We Didn’t Know Was Coming

Somewhere around the time your kids leave the house, you stop being a parent in the daily operational sense and get promoted — if you’re lucky — to trusted counselor. We’re hoping to earn that promotion unanimously.

We weren’t perfect parents. Our advice isn’t flawless either. But if our kids can feel the gist of how we’ve lived — if they’ve seen our convictions match our words, if they’ve watched our marriage hold — then it’ll be hard for any of them to look back and say, “Nobody told me that.”

You were told. You were shown.

We’re not trying to make our kids into copies of us. We’re trying to make sure they don’t walk into the world without a compass. Call me boring. Just don’t accuse me of raising kids who’ll make the world worse. We fought too hard for that. And if they pass something worthwhile to the next generation of Gruenbaums?

That’s the whole point of the journey.

The “Pepper Incident” and Other Liquid Legacies

When I was growing up, my family was not known to waste much of anything. My kids realized long ago that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree on that one. We ate our “warmups” (leftovers), and one of the biggest tragedies of my youth was the infamous “Pepper Incident.” My mom had chopped up a batch of peppers and froze them alongside every loaf of bread and pack of buns in the freezer. Whether freezer bags just didn’t seal as well back then or it was a secret plot to get me to eat less carbs, the result was a catastrophe. For months, every hamburger or hot dog bun I touched had a distinct, inescapable “pepper vibe.” It ruined the protein and ensured I wouldn’t become a fan of peppers for decades. In fact, it got so bad I started opting for plain bread—which, in those days, my father bought in “old” bags at a substantial discount. If we didn’t freeze it immediately, that bread was destined to host its own thriving mold colony.

The Mystery at the Dinner Table

But I digress. My mother’s efficiency didn’t stop at peppers. She’d often drain the juice from canned fruits because the recipe didn’t require it. What do you do with a cup of random fruit juice sitting in the fridge? You pour it into the Kool-Aid container with whatever flavor was already there.

Dinner became a game of Russian Roulette for the taste buds. I wasn’t one to hold back. After the first sip, I’d ask, “What exactly did you mix up for us tonight?” My mother didn’t mean any harm; she was just being efficient. But those flavor potpourris made an impression—one that would eventually haunt my own children.

Upping the Ante: The Bus Stop Games

When my sons were in elementary school, they took a shuttle bus to a pickup location near our home. To show them I was thinking about them, I’d bring a snack and a drink. The snack was the easy part. The drink was where I “kicked it up a notch.”

The game was simple: “Guess What You Are Drinking?” At my disposal, I had various fruit juices, every Kool-Aid packet known to man, and a set of food coloring bottles. I’d create concoctions that looked like pond water (minus the floaties) but were guaranteed to be drinkable. This was before the pickle juice craze, so I kept it somewhat civil.

The heart of the game was “taste-budding out” the flavors dancing over their palates. I’d offer partial credit—when you’re mixing two types of Kool-Aid, a splash of pear juice, and blue food dye, you can’t exactly expect perfection. They participated because they knew I wasn’t required to bring a snack, and perhaps because of the unspoken rule: If you don’t drink today’s mystery, there might not be one tomorrow. (I never did mention that part to their mother.)

The “Fun Grandpa” Era

I’d like to say I made everything fun for them growing up, but I didn’t. Like anyone, I had my cranky days. But as I spend time with my granddaughter now—occasionally offering a capful of Gatorade as a “chaser” after her bottle of formula—I hope I lean heavier into the fun side of the ledger.

If you can’t be a perfect parent, make sure you mix in enough quirky and fun to help the natives forget the days you didn’t quite “nail it.”