Living Arrangements

my adult kids live with me, and i'm good with that

My kids live with me. They are 32 and 29 and I’m happy to have them in my house. I love the company, I appreciate not being alone after enduring a breakup. I love that my daughter watches hockey games with me, that I can hear the soft sounds of my son playing his guitar drifting into the living room. We coexist nicely, each of us finding our personal space as well as finding common time together.

I got married when I was 25, got pregnant right away, moved into an apartment in my cousin’s house. Looking back I think about how young I was, how unprepared I was for life as a wife and mother and keeper of the house. Times were different then, though. Money was different. Expectations were different.

What I wanted for my kids lies somewhere between my life at their ages and the lives they have now. But I realized some time ago that what I want for them does not matter. They don’t live their lives according to my needs for them. They don’t want to be married or parents, at least not right now. And I’m ok with that. It’s not up to me anymore to decide what’s best for them. This isn’t like forcing your child to wear boots in the snow when all they want to do is wear ballet slippers; I can’t and shouldn’t exert control over what they do with their lives.

My kids are not doctors or lawyers and don’t have jobs that would cause other parents to leverage their kids’ occupations into bragging rights. My daughter runs her own photography business, but Covid has hit her hard. My son works in a health food grocery store. He works hard every single day. I am proud of them both, for making their own way in the world, for not conforming to what other people expected of them, for making the most of what they have and living fulfilled, interesting lives.

As my children were growing up, I made a habit of saying all I wanted from them was to be good people. I wanted them to be giving and caring, empathetic and generous, loyal and kind. I didn’t care if they went to college or entered some profession that comes with bragging rights. I just wanted them to be happy with life, with themselves, to make enough to maintain that happiness. I thought my success as a parent would lie in the personality of my kids. Did I raise good kids? Yes, I did. They are very good human beings and I am incredibly proud of this.

It’s so easy to compare yourself to others and feel down when you do. I used to do that a lot. But I stopped doing it when I realized it was a disservice to myself and my children. They are not their peers. They are not their cousins. They are two very unique individuals with their own sets of needs and wants. The fact that they live with me does not mean anything in the long run except that the economy sucks. Why would I thrust them out into an uncaring, expensive world when I have room for them with me? I don’t expect anyone whose kids have fancy houses and jobs to understand this. And I don’t need them to. This is my life. Our lives. We are happy, for the most part.

My son’s birthday was yesterday and my daughter’s is in two weeks. I’ve been feeling old about that. But what I don’t feel is any kind of regret about where we are right now. I let them live their own lives, make their own decisions, forge their own paths. I never directed them toward any career or pushed them to do things they had no desire to do, just to keep up with others. I pushed them only to be good to others, to seek justice and equality, to be fair and honest and have a sense of humor about everything. I’ve succeeded there.

I haven’t always been the best parent. There are patches of motherhood where I was depressed, where I was absent. I’ve tried to make up for that, maybe too hard. I feel like I have evened it out lately. I don’t hover anymore, I don’t overcompensate as I once did. I just let them be. That I’m letting them be in my house is of no consequence to anyone else.

Things are nice. We talk more than we would if they weren’t living here. We laugh, we cook, we listen to music, we watch hockey. They shovel snow and take out the garbage and walk the dog and yes, they pay rent. I don’t think I would have made it through the last depression soaked year if they weren’t with me, keeping me company, keeping me from despair. We are a family. And I’ve always been told to keep my family close. There will come a time when they will disappear from my house, when we go our separate ways. I’ll be ready for that. But I’m not ready quite yet.