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.