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Remember the lavishing of praise I gave B. on Saturday night? Well, because of the actions I'm about to describe, I can safely say that Steak and a BJ Day will never be an issue in this house. I've decided we're going vegetarian. Some of us are going very, very vegetarian.

B.'s method of "dealing with the situation" involved getting out of the truck and into his parents' car, but not before holding the door open so his mother could join me.

It had occured to me that perhaps MIL wanted to get me alone so we could have a talk about the shaky state of our "relationship". Honestly, I would have preferred that. I would love the opportunity to say, "Yeah, I don't get you, and I know you don't get me. Let's quit pretending that we do and at least show that we can appreciate our differences instead of acting like they don't exist." Not that case. Instead, I got what I knew I would get: my MIL, sitting in the passenger seat, staring at me, blank smile on her face, waiting.

Waiting, for what? Entertainment? Do you want me to do a trick? No, I know what you want. You want me to talk. You want me to start a conversation because you're too emotionally chicken shit to risk opening your mouth and revealing anything about yourself.

In my recent angsty moments, I've bitched a lot about being sick to death of being the person in many of my relationships who's expected to do the stuff that the other person deems too scary or hard. Being that person has worn me out, and I'm trying to not do that. I promised myself that, with this in-law visit, I wasn't going to be that person. If she wants to talk to me, let her talk. I'll participate. But I'm not going to be the one who racks her brain for something to talk about, maintains the conversation, and is expected to give of herself while the other person takes it all in. No more.

So after hello, I initiated no conversation. MIL's conversational contribution consisted of, "I really like Clara Jane's sippy cup. Life was so hard raising kids 30 years ago without them."

By the time arrived at the coffeehouse, I was so mad I would have gladly poured scalding-hot espresso into my husband's pants. This rage was exasperated by his lack of attention to the table arrangements, which left me sitting at a little table with Clara Jane, all by ourselves.

Granted, everyone was probably happier that way.

For the ride home, we returned to our respective vehicles. B. had informed him mom that he should ride with me because we were "bickering". "I don't complain about your parents!" he said, to which I replied, "That's because my parents think you hung the moon and stars. When have my parents ever criticized you for anything? Have they criticized your housekeeping? Your roll in our household? Your weight? Did my parents tell you, when you were eight months pregnant with their grandchild, that you should go on the Atkin diet?" The list goes on and on. The fact is, my parents have taken the time to get to know B. They appreciate him for who he is, even though they don't have much in common with him. They've made an emotional investment in him. He doesn't complain about my parents because how do you complain about people who treat you like that?

Needless to say, the next few hours at hour house aren't at risk of being labeled Party of the Year. I mentioned on Saturday that Clara Jane makes a great buffer, but I'm going to retract that. It would be different if they'd play with her, interact with her. But they don't. At least, not much. They might show her how to make a little snake with Play-Doh, or move a few of her dolls around, but otherwise, they just stand back and stare, waiting for her to entertain them. Maybe if they get too close, interact too much, they might get too emotionally attached. Emotions are hard.

I don't want my daughter to carry the emotional load of her relationship with her grandparents. That's not fair to her. But it might explain why she sobbed like her heart was breaking Saturday night when she pooped in the potty for the first time, terrified that she'd done something wrong. And why she had a repeat performance a few hours later when she stepped on the dog's foot. And the next day when she was brushing the cat, who hissed at her. Clara Jane tends to be a little emotionally sensitive, but this weekend, it was in overdrive.

The in-laws left at Clara Jane's naptime. In parting MIL said, "Clara needs a nap break. B. needs a break, too. And Robin needs an in-law break," all said with a tooth-grinding smile, knowing full well that I wouldn't react as she was walking out the door.

I had no idea how I was going to coordinate my Wilco committment with the in-law committment, whether I'd be skating in at the last minute because they either wouldn't let me get away, or because I'd thrown myself under a moving truck, or if I'd be so desperate for escape that I'd show up insanely early. It was the latter, which is good. I got there at 5:30 - I normally get to shows at this venue at 6:30 and always wind up with great seats. The crowd was so big that the bar was already full, relegating me to standing in line outside. And let me tell you, I have never been so excited at the prospect of being on my feet, by myself in a crowd, in 45-degree temperatures. Pure bliss! I popped in my earbuds, cranked the iPod to Kicking Television and went to my happy place.

Despite the crowd, I managed to nab pretty good seats. Allison caught up with me shortly thereafter. Are you reading her blog? You need to be reading her blog. Instead of the usual blog-fodder, she's posting entries from her junior high diary, circa 1987. Anyway, there was good company, good beer, and a good opening act whose name escapes me. They were the fourth band I've seen in a year with only two members - White Stripes, Black Keys, and Death From Above 1979 being the others. The guitar-and-drums thing has really taken off, and I'm continually surprised at how many different sounds can come from such a scant combination.

Wilco. Oh, Wilco. You take my angst and anger and rage and turn it into something lovely and pure. I could go all music geek on you and extoll the rarities they played last night, but I'll spare you, since I know many of you either 1) don't like Wilco (blasphem!), or 2) have no idea who in the hell I'm talking about. If you don't fall into those categories and want more show-related details, drop me a line. I think I've gotten most of the post-show bliss out of my system with my similarly-inclined nerds. One of them even coined the term "I just puked from jealousy" in regards to the show. It was just that good.

I do have to mention a few highlights, though. They performed Kingpin, which was a wonderful surprise. However, these lyrics -

I wanna be your kingpin
Living in Pekin
I wanna be your bigwig
Living in Pekin

I got the flu and away I flew
NYC, pediate blue
Dimetapp and spinal tap
City maps and hand claps

now and forever will remind me of that time when Clara Jane covered me, herself, the cart, and the floor of the Pekin, Illinois Walmart Supercenter meat department in vomit. Therefore, I laughed through the whole song. While I would love for Jeff to be my kingpin, there's no way we can live in Pekin, because I'm pretty sure they won't let me or my vile child back into the Wal-Mart. These are the thoughts I entertain after a beer and a half and two days with my in-laws.

The first song of the first encore got me, too: Passenger Side, from their first album. Very unexpected, and it sent me hurtling back to my last year of college, when it came out. Back then, Wilco was just this twangy little band from Belleville with that guy from Uncle Tupelo, who spent a lot of time playing shows in my town. Boy, has that band changed. Have I changed. This band has grown up with me. I treasure what we were in 1995, but damn, I love where we've all ended up.

From there, an even bigger surprise: New Madrid, from Jeff's Uncle Tupelo days, a song I never thought I'd see him perform live again. Once again, the nostalgia hit. The song talks about Dr. Iben Browning's prediction that a catastrophic earthquake would occur in southern Missouri on December 3, 1990. I remember the day well. I was a senior in high school, and spent the day at a debate tournament in Kansas City. Tournaments usually had a theme that dictated decorations and such, and that particular school had an earthquake theme.

Beyond that, I love the image of walking to the fountain, hand-in-arm while the world falls apart. The fountain referenced is located in Jeff's hometown of Belleville, Illinois, and it's located near the neighborhood B. and I plan to call "home" by this time next year. As I stood there last night, stupid grin plastered across my face, a question popped into my head that's been popping in since we started talking about moving to Belleville last spring: am I so stupid that I want to move to a town because one of my favorite musicians is from there?

No, I know I'm not. I want to move there because it's a small town near St. Louis with Metrolink train access to the city. It has a thriving little downtown, lots of independent businesses, a great annual art show, fabulous old houses that cost 1/3 of what comparable houses cost on this side of the Mississippi, a good school system, and all those other reasons that make a town desirable. It's just an added perk that the town Clara Jane will consider her hometown has such a good song written about it, with images of the landmarks that'll populate her childhood. The songs about her current hometown leave a bit to be desired.

After a weekend of spent with people - myself included - who spent most of their energy surpressing their emotions, it was great to be at a show where so many people were just plain happy. Wilco puts on a hell of a hometown show, and the audience was thrilled. I got a kick out of the college boys in front of us. At first I feared they'd be the usual band of dorks, showing up at the "in" show just to get drunk and say they were there. Not the case. They knew the words to every song, new and old. When the collective roar went up at the beginning of California Stars, these boys squealed like little girls and hugged each other, like they were welcoming an old friend back to the fold. Once they settled down, they stood in a row with arms either linked, or slung over the shoulders of their buddies, swaying and singing, not concerned with being embarrassed or getting hurt. They let the moment touch their hearts, and they gloriously and publically revelled in it.

The world might be a better place if we all did that a little more often.