My husband, children and I live with my parents.
There I said it. You can go ahead and stop reading and click away.
I don’t generally tell people this. There are plenty of reasons I don’t talk about it.
People tend to get weird about it. They put their baggage on me. They assume that I have a bad relationship with my parents and that living with them must be hell on earth.
Just for the record, it isn’t. Okay, not all of the time.
We have a laundry list of reasons for staying here. First of all, we have two small children, we are starting our own business (Caldera Consulting) and both of those are full-time jobs. It really helps to have two other people available, even part of the time, to handle the little criminals when needed.
We also have the little matter of being sued by my delightful mother-in-law, legal bills, etc. and it turns out the cost of being a Smith, living in So Cal is pretty pricey.
No, our children are not spoiled. No, my parents are not raising our children. No, we did not plan on sponging off my parents.
In this life, shit happens. You deal with what that shit is the best that you can.
Perhaps I am in denial or rationalizing things, but I believe that my children are benefitting from living in a home that contains three generations. They are being raised by four dramatically different adult personalities.
We still have all the same worries and concerns of other parents. It is nearly impossible for us to have an adult conversation. We have to schedule date nights. We deal with how to discipline the children.
The bottom line, we are the parents. These children are our responsibility, not my parent’s.
One of the extra bonus freebies of living with my parents? Getting to witness/participate in conversations like this gem. (Names have been changed to protect the extremely innocent. That does not include my parents).
Setting: The breakfast table. My mother walks into the kitchen after checking the gossip on FaceBook (aka The Devil’s Workshop).
Mom after checking FaceBook: Nothing earth-shattering, except Nathan (son of a friend) has mononucleosis.
Dad confused: Did they say anything about his glasses?
Mom, even more confused: What?
Dad: His glasses, did they say anything about them?
Mom: What glasses? He doesn’t wear glasses.
Me: Mom said he has mononucleosis.
Dad, all is becoming clear suddenly: Oh, I though you said he wears glasses.
Mom: It wouldn’t matter if he did, he has mononucleosis.
See folks? Shit like this goes on every stinking day around here.
Just you wait until I share The Raccoon Chronicles with you!