Living with my parents at the age of nearly 38 is quite an interesting experience. Sometimes I liken it to the Native Americans who lived, all generations coexisting, in one long house. This is our long house. Sometimes, we refer to our arrangement as the village. Sometimes, even as the f#$%ing village, as in: It takes an f@#$ing village to raise a child.
For the most part, this is an extremely practical arrangement. We all share resources. I have great assistance in caring for the kids. My parents get to reexperience the reward of raising children. Most of the time, it's a lovely situation for all of us.
However, some days it's not. On those days, my mother and father are stressed and overwhelmed by the chaos. I sometimes get tired of living by their rules and in their house. I crave my own independent existence. On those days, I saltily storm about and every little thing I do gets on their nerves.
I think the therapist was right when she said there is no way to avoid it, living with your parents is an infantalizing experience. Sad, but true. I find myself acting like a petulant sixteen year old. Today, for instance, I slept in late and then felt like a lazy load sitting on the couch drinking my coffee while my mother scurried around getting my daughter ready for school. That's just not right, is it? Why am I such a brat sometimes?
Look at our cute little village: