How Do I Politely Ask My In-Laws to Stop Blowing on My Baby’s Face When They Pray? Real Parenting Tips
The mashed potatoes were still steaming when my mother-in-law leaned over Milo’s bouncer, crossed herself, and breathed three short, warm puffs right onto his forehead. It was the third Sunday in a row I’d watched it happen, and this time, he flinched so hard his pacifier popped out and clattered onto the high chair tray. She didn’t notice, just tucked a blanket around his legs and moved down the table to pass the gravy.
I poked at my potatoes for the rest of dinner. This wasn’t some random odd habit: the soft blowing is part of the traditional Catholic prayer against mal de ojo, or evil eye, that everyone in my husband Javi’s extended Mexican-American family has done for babies for generations. It’s never meant to be rude or unhygienic—it’s literally how they speak blessing and protection over a new baby. I didn’t grow up with the practice; my own lapsed Protestant family just mumbles a quiet prayer and does a quick sign of the cross from a foot away. But I got why it mattered, and for weeks I told myself I was being a high-strung first-time mom for minding.
Then Milo came down with his first viral cold two days after that dinner, the kind that left him wheezing and up every hour for three nights. Our pediatrician reminded us at his four-month checkup that his immune system was still immature, and the patch of eczema that flared across his hairline whenever he got sick had already gotten infected twice from saliva and excess moisture. Direct breath on his face wasn’t just a weird quirk I found annoying. It was actually making him uncomfortable, and raising the odds he’d pick up every cold that made its way through the family.
I mentioned it to Javi after we got home, and he brushed it off at first. “It’s just how she is,” he said, folding laundry while Milo napped on his chest. “She did it to me, all my cousins, every baby in the family. It’s two seconds. You don’t want to hurt her feelings.” He had a point. I’d seen enough fights in my local mom group about in-laws “disrespecting” boundaries that ended with months of skipped visits and tense holidays. I didn’t want that. But I also didn’t want to spend every family gathering hovering over Milo’s bouncer, tensed up waiting for someone to lean in.
We avoided the conversation for another two weeks, until a Sunday cookout where Javi’s dad coughed into his elbow three times in ten minutes, then leaned straight over Milo’s play mat to do the prayer and blowing. I caught Javi’s eye across the yard, and he sighed. That night we talked through what we actually wanted, and it turned out the answer wasn’t “ban all prayer over our baby” or “start a fight about family tradition.” It was just “ask them to do the same prayer a different way.”
The first call we made was letting Javi lead the first conversation with his parents, not me. As much as I wanted to set the boundary myself, I was still the relative newcomer to the family, and any request from me risked sounding like I was rejecting their culture or their love. Coming from their son, who’d grown up with the same practice, it landed completely differently. He brought it up the next Saturday when they were out in the garage grilling chicken, no one else around, no audience to make anyone feel shamed. He didn’t lead with “stop doing that weird thing to my baby.” He just said, “Milo’s eczema keeps getting infected, and the pediatrician said we can’t have anyone breathing directly on his face right now while his immune system’s still weak. Your prayers for him mean so much to both of us, though. Could you just do the sign of the cross on his hand or the top of his head instead of blowing? He’s obsessed with grabbing fingers anyway.”
His mom paused for a second, then nodded. She told him later she’d had no idea the eczema was that sensitive, and she’d been worried we thought her prayers were silly. That’s the piece I missed at first: for most grandparents, these little rituals aren’t about being stubborn. They’re the most familiar way they know how to pour care over a new baby, and when you ask them to stop the action without giving them an alternative, it feels like you’re asking them to stop caring.
I tested the same line one-on-one with her a few days later when she dropped off tamales, before she had a chance to lean in to greet him. I was sitting on the floor with Milo doing tummy time, and I said it casual, like I was mentioning his nap schedule, not dropping a big boundary: “He’s got that little eczema flare again this week, and the pediatrician’s really on us about keeping breath and saliva off it so it doesn’t turn into another infection. We love that you pray over him, though—would you do the cross on his hand? He’s been holding onto fingers for 10 minutes straight lately.” She smiled, knelt down, traced the cross on his chubby palm, and said her prayer quiet. He grabbed her thumb and gurgled so loud she laughed.
We did have slip-ups, of course. At Milo’s baptism a month later, she leaned in out of habit right after the priest finished the blessing, and got one quick puff on his forehead before she remembered. I didn’t yank him away or make a face in front of the whole extended family. I just gently tilted his head so the rest hit his hair instead of his mouth, and brought it up quiet later when we were alone getting cake. When Tia Mabel, Javi’s great-aunt, pushed back at a family barbecue and said “a little prayer breath never hurt none of my babies,” I didn’t argue about tradition or pull up medical studies on my phone. I just smiled, held Milo’s hand out to her, and said “I know, it’s just what our pediatrician ordered for this little guy right now. Once he’s a little older it won’t matter near as much.” She huffed, but she traced the cross on his hand and didn’t bring it up again.
It’s been six months now, and most of the family automatically reaches for his hand or the top of his head when they pray over him. Last week Milo had a fever and we ended up in urgent care, and my mother-in-law showed up at our door with soup before we even got home. She knelt by his crib where he was asleep, flushed and fussy, and leaned in automatically before she caught herself. She pulled back halfway, looked at me guilty, and I just mouthed it’s okay. One soft puff landed on the top of his fuzzy hair, and she stroked his hand and said her prayer quiet.
I still see new parents in my mom group ask this exact question every couple of weeks, like it’s a choice between being rude to your in-laws or letting people do something that makes you and your baby uncomfortable. It doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to prove their tradition is wrong, win an argument, or set a hard permanent boundary forever. Most of the time, all you need is to name a specific, practical reason for the request, give them another way to show the same love, correct gently in private instead of shaming them in front of family, and let the small, harmless slip-ups go. We still don’t know if we’ll mind the blowing when he’s a toddler with a stronger immune system and clearer skin. For now, this works.
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