I sometimes think it would be easier if my parents were either Brady Bunch perfect or bad people who'd done a blatantly poor job. But like most parents, they fell somewhere in between. I grew up with all the accoutrements of a wonderful childhood — private schools, soccer games, summers at the beach, All through my financially tenuous career as a writer, they've jumped in with financial support for everything from plane tickets to health insurance.
But they're a product of the conventional 1950s, a time when it was a sin to ripple the waters. Leo recently threw his first mini temper tantrum, balling up his fists and pounding them against the bed when he rolled over and got stuck on his stomach. My mother was aghast. When I had tantrums as a child, my father would rush to make sure all the doors and windows were shut so none of the neighbors would hear. There was no use trying to explain now, over Leo's screams, that I planned to teach him to channel his feelings but not feel ashamed of them.
I suspect that if we stay in the same household things will only get more complicated and that my parent's judgment will become harder to bear. What happens if I want to tap my slim financial resources to travel? Or if I want to have sex? What if I decide to have another baby? Is it possible to lead a fulfilling life as a thirty-eight-year-old single mother alongside parents who still behave like I'm a fragile teen? How much say do they get in my decisions when I'm still financially dependent on them?
When I first moved back, I found it demoralizing to still need my parents help, no matter how much they wanted to provide it. And I still feel a twinge of shame whenever I explain our circumstances to other new parents I meet.
I'm starting to realize that this experiment in multi-generational living was the right choice.
But I'm starting to realize that this experiment in multi-generational living was the right choice. I see him forming a bond with my mother, who's taking care of him four mornings a week while I work. His face lights up when they play patty-cake together.
And we've worked a lot out. My parents seem to accept that I've chosen a more alternative lifestyle, from eating organic to using a midwife. And I've learned to respect their need to keep the house meticulously organized and to show up everywhere ten minutes early.
Most importantly, I've let go of my biggest fear — that, because Leo and I live with my parents, we will automatically become them. He has a buffer in place that I never had. Me. When my mother tries to yank away the frozen teething ring because she's convinced it will burn his cheeks, I'm there to hand it back. And someday in the future when my father gets judgmental about someone who's fat or lazy, I will be there with a lesson about compassion. In the meantime, Leo gets to spend his early years surrounded by three people who love him as much as humanly possible. Given that, I'd say that moving back in with my parents was the second best decision I ever made.
Photo: Kimberly Wood
©2008 Nan Mooney and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Nan Mooney's third book, (Not) Keeping Up With Our Parents: The Decline of the Professional Middle Class, comes out in May. She lives in Seattle with her son Leo and lots of rain. |
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