I stopped cooking with cheese, but they still live at home

If someone told me 20 years ago that the life of this mother was going to turn out this way, I would have never believed it. As I reflect back on the parenting of my young brood, twenty years ago I was preparing infant formula, changing diapers, and reading bedtime stories.  A young mother of two at the time, I wanted those special moments with my babies to last forever.

Fast-forward to my present-day reality, and I cannot stop perusing the newspapers  for apartments for rent. To clarify any confusion, the young brood, now young adults, have made it perfectly clear that life with Mom and Pop is quite comfortable, affordable, and downright convenient. In other words, even though I stopped cooking with cheese, they still won’t move out.

In-house laundry, a revolving door 24-hour a day diner where meals are free and dishes are miraculously washed, and last but not least, the toilet paper rolls are mysteriously replaced, the milk bags magically refilled, and the bills, whatever they may be,  are somehow paid. They are living the dream life, but according only to the husband and I.

I have concluded at the ripe old age of 45, that every woman should have her own little apartment, located strategically away from the family home. Perhaps I would sign the lease under an alias name, and the children would never be the wiser. Mother would cheerfully appear at the family abode for meals, laundry, and of course, to replenish all necessary supplies ranging from apples to toilet paper and everything in between. The only difference being, mother would appear surprisingly relaxed, pleasant, and holding a cranberry vodka martini in her hands when the brood and their dear friends rush in and out of the door of home central. Mother could now keep her composure at the sight of yet, the piles of dirty sneakers left by the front door when the closet is only inches away. Mother would now shrug her shoulders at the mountain of dirty laundry, knowing full-well, she would be heading to her safe secret haven for an afternoon of chick flicks with her girlfriends.

So while number one son approaches me for the $800 he’s short to insulate the basement he is converting into an apartment with the girlfriend, I simply smile, stroke him a cheque, all while calling the drugstore to see if that prescription is ready for pick up. Again, more smiles, more shoulder shrugging, more foreign films with English subtitles.

In an age where the experts are telling parents that family dinner hour is vital to keeping kids off of drugs, off the streets, and ensuring future success, husband and I are doing everything in our power to avoid the family dinners we once looked forward to and insisted upon. Rather, we have become collectors of restaurant menus, salivating at not the food, but the thought of quiet meals out, away from the volume, interruptions, and piles of dirty dishes. We hear ourselves repeating the questions:  “where did we go wrong?” and “why do they like us so much?”

I constantly remind the children that “when your father and I were your age, we were married with children and a mortgage.” The sad reality: “your father and I are still married, have aged because of you children, and you are the reason we still have a mortgage.”

Perhaps husband and I can blame our circumstances on our old-fashioned Italian up-bringing.  We were indeed raised in tight-knit Italian families, by over-protective, over-nurturing Italian parents who suffered from separation anxiety the second their children left the room. In Italy, it is standard procedure for children to remain at home until they are well into their ‘40’s. The very thought of this is causing my stomach to flip and a headache to come on.

I should have taken my father’s advice some 15 years ago when he warned me that my “Italian-mother style of parenting” was creating a trio of dependent monsters that would never leave my side – not even as adults. I remember laughing out loud when papa repeated this to me, every time I fed the children in front of the t.v. set. Today, I am crying at the very thought of papa’s words.

Now, back to the Italian newspaper and the apartment for rent ads.

25 years of love, honour and shoes

They say it takes a village to raise a child, and I agree with that statement wholeheartedly. As the mother of a young brood of three now young adults, I do thank my tribe, my neighbours, and my village for their support in helping me survive their rearing over the past 24 years.

On a similar note, this week marks my 25^th wedding anniversary, and with this milestone event, comes much reflection. If it takes a village to raise a child, I can’t help but wonder if it takes a village to grow and sustain a marriage.

As a mere 20 year-old young, impressionable girl leaving home for the first time, getting married to the man of my dreams was the most exciting event of my life. Amid the love and laughter of newlyweds, reality quickly set in with the arrival of bills, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and a whole new host of responsibilities. On more than one occasion as a young bride, drowning in dirty laundry consisting of men’s briefs, men’s athletic socks, men’s hockey equipment, men’s baseball equipment, men’s workout clothes, and men’s dirty towels, I felt as though life had take a turn.

Things certainly didn’t look like this in those glossy honeymoon brochures of couples bathing in heart-shaped pools, sipping champagne, somewhere in the Pocono Mountains. I couldn’t help but wonder where those couples are today. Are they still married? Who did their laundry? Did they seek the sage advice of older, wiser, more experienced married couples?

Suffice it to say, I have been one of the lucky ones. Husband lived away from home on more than one occasion, and that meant learning how to cook, clean, and do his own laundry. Today, he is the main grocery shopper, meal planner, cook, and in charge of the laundering of all sport-related equipment, including athletic socks, jock straps, and sweat-laden articles. Could this be the key ingredient to a happy marriage?

Sharing the household duties, from hunting and gathering to raising the young, married couples could learn a lot from looking right outside their door. Birds of all species, cats, rabbits, all kinds of wildlife share the duties when it comes to survival and raising a family. It also helps to have somebody older and wiser to look to when things get tough. For me, the husband’s 80-year old grandmother arriving to Canada the year we got married was the best wedding present I could have received. Newly-widowed, my grand-mother in-law soon became my advisor, confidante, and best friend. Thanks to her, my Italian improved ten-fold, and my “how to cope with the Italian husband” skills improved a thousand times.

I learned that being “in love” isn’t a stage in life reserved only for the young. I learned that “patience and understanding” often meant “blind eye, deaf ear”. I learned that expressing your true feelings works best over a delicious dinner of eggplant parmigiana, a pan of lasagna, a pot full of meat balls, a flask or two of Chianti. Of course, an Andrea Boccelli or Luciano Pavoritti CD playing in the background doesn’t hurt either.

Seeking solace in one’s own passions, interests, and friends is another skill I learned from my sage Italian advisor. This is where the shoe situation came into play. I cannot count how many hours I have spent over the past 25 years looking at shoes, shopping for shoes, trying on shoes, compiling a collection of shoes, organizing, storing, cataloguing, photographing, and finally, showing those shoes to many, many family and friends.

This time away from the husband gave him the opportunity to divulge in his interests – cooking, beer, football, hockey, basketball, baseball, beer, cooking, burping, and more beer. I tell you, it’s been like a match made in heaven.

I now look forward to, God willing, the next 25 years ahead, and growing alongside my mate, my companion, my husband, my best-friend. Thanks to my dearly missed, beloved grandmother-in-law, I’ve learned that a husband and a wife don’t have to like the same things, share the same interests, or even shop for shoes together to have a strong relationship, a friendship, a bond. I’ve learned that chemistry will get you through the toughest times, and I’ve learned that laughter is worth is more than Dr. Phil’s latest book on relationships. I’ve learned that forgiveness is the greatest challenge, and at the same time, the greatest ally.

Here’s to the next 25 years!