Last week, my four-month-old son Leo had a major diaper blowout in the grocery store. By the time we got through the checkout line there was florescent yellow poop all over my jeans, the Bjorn, the car keys and the grocery bag. In freezing-cold weather, I had to do a full decontamination in the back seat of the car, then rush home and get us both bathed and to a potluck within the hour.
So when Leo and I got back to my parents' house, which is also temporarily our house, I was flustered. We performed a second decontamination in the laundry room, which included tossing out his socks, pants and onesie alongside the package of wipes I'd gone through in the car.
That night, post-potluck, I overheard my mother telling my father that I was "completely undone" by the situation.
I wanted to overreact, to scream that I coped with the supermarket fiasco just fine, thank you very much. But I just hauled Leo's car seat to our downstairs bedroom, silently promising myself that Leo would be permitted to be as emotional as he pleased, whenever he pleased, about whatever he pleased.
In the retelling, this little "undone" comment sounds like a small thing. But it's the kind of thing that, wrapped in thirty-eight years of history together, makes living with my parents while being a parent one of the greatest challenges I've ever faced.
Moving in with my parents was a last-minute decision. I was single, five months pregnant, and living in Manhattan when it became apparent that the job I'd lined up wouldn't be as child-friendly as I'd hoped. The hours were long, health insurance was only partially covered and there would be no paid maternity leave. Without a better job, I couldn't afford to stay in New York, nor could I afford to move anywhere else. When I'd visited my parents a month earlier, they'd offered to let me move in with them for a while so I could spend time with the baby and get my financial footing. At the time, I'd rejected their offer flat out. But as plans a, b and c disintegrated, it started to look like moving back to Seattle was the only option.
Living with my parents has plenty of advantages. Most importantly, I get to spend more time with Leo, because I don't have to worry about paying rent. But it also means raising my son in an environment where stiff upper lips are mandatory, where his illegitimate arrival was first greeted with shock and shame, where emotions are swallowed and then fester. Though my family has plenty of positive traits that I hope he'll inherit — the loving of reading, for one — when it comes down to it, I don't want to raise my son the way my parents raised me.
I sometimes think it would be easier if my parents were either Brady Bunch perfect or bad people who'd done a blatantly poor job. But like most parents, they fell somewhere in between. I grew up with all the accoutrements of a wonderful childhood — private schools, soccer games, summers at the beach, All through my financially tenuous career as a writer, they've jumped in with financial support for everything from plane tickets to health insurance.
But they're a product of the conventional 1950s, a time when it was a sin to ripple the waters. Leo recently threw his first mini temper tantrum, balling up his fists and pounding them against the bed when he rolled over and got stuck on his stomach. My mother was aghast. When I had tantrums as a child, my father would rush to make sure all the doors and windows were shut so none of the neighbors would hear. There was no use trying to explain now, over Leo's screams, that I planned to teach him to channel his feelings but not feel ashamed of them.
I suspect that if we stay in the same household things will only get more complicated and that my parent's judgment will become harder to bear. What happens if I want to tap my slim financial resources to travel? Or if I want to have sex? What if I decide to have another baby? Is it possible to lead a fulfilling life as a thirty-eight-year-old single mother alongside parents who still behave like I'm a fragile teen? How much say do they get in my decisions when I'm still financially dependent on them?
When I first moved back, I found it demoralizing to still need my parents help, no matter how much they wanted to provide it. And I still feel a twinge of shame whenever I explain our circumstances to other new parents I meet.
But I'm starting to realize that this experiment in multi-generational living was the right choice. I see him forming a bond with my mother, who's taking care of him four mornings a week while I work. His face lights up when they play patty-cake together.
And we've worked a lot out. My parents seem to accept that I've chosen a more alternative lifestyle, from eating organic to using a midwife. And I've learned to respect their need to keep the house meticulously organized and to show up everywhere ten minutes early.
Most importantly, I've let go of my biggest fear — that, because Leo and I live with my parents, we will automatically become them. He has a buffer in place that I never had. Me. When my mother tries to yank away the frozen teething ring because she's convinced it will burn his cheeks, I'm there to hand it back. And someday in the future when my father gets judgmental about someone who's fat or lazy, I will be there with a lesson about compassion. In the meantime, Leo gets to spend his early years surrounded by three people who love him as much as humanly possible. Given that, I'd say that moving back in with my parents was the second best decision I ever made.
Photo: Kimberly Wood