My husband and I moved in with my parents before I had our daughter. They helped us through the first 6 months of her life.

Yahoo

7 days ago

When I was 38 weeks pregnant, my husband and I had to move in with my parents.
I wanted to nest, but I was in my childhood bedroom. It was a familiar space, but it wasn't ours.
Their support was invaluable, even if there were a few stressful moments.
When I stepped back into my childhood bedroom and slumped down on the bed at 38 weeks pregnant, I felt a rush of emotions.
It was February 2021, and my husband and I were in the process of selling our first home.
The whole process had dragged on so long that everyone was stressed.
Although we'd tried our best to find another house to move into, a few deals had fallen through, and with the baby coming, we decided to cut our losses, sell our house, and move back in with my parents, who live an hour away from our house and the hospital.
They were generous in offering up their space. We were lucky to be welcomed with open arms, but it still wasn't our home, and I couldn't nest properly, so I worked out my nesting urges by making sure we had everything possible we could for the baby.
We invaded with baby supplies, and as parcel after parcel arrived at their home, I saw their eyes widen. When a new baby bath arrived, which I cooed over excitedly, my mother asked, "Why have you bought a bucket to bathe the baby in?" I was slightly hurt that while I was feeling excited over these purchases for our firstborn, it felt as though she saw them as unnecessary, but I soon got over it.
I packed hospital bags, washed tiny clothes, and checked the car seat fitted into the car a million times. It was all I could do. And not once did my parents complain about us encroaching on their space.
When my baby girl was born at the end of March, the support from my parents was invaluable.
They were there to help us, new, clueless, and exhausted parents, every step of the way. During nights of particularly bad sleep, for example, they took the baby and put her in her bouncer while my husband and I grabbed an extra hour of rest.
However, sometimes, their gentle guidance could become slightly too much. Sometimes, my mom, who clearly adored her grandchild but also couldn't stop being my mother, would insist on taking my daughter for a walk so I could rest, while all I wanted to do was lie with her on the bed.
Another time, she referred to my daughter as her baby. It was a lighthearted remark and showed the depth of love she felt for her grandchild, but I struggled hearing it; it felt like I was being relegated to the role of child yet again, instead of being seen as a parent.
Still, watching my parents spend hours with my tiny girl, bonding, loving and being enchanted by her, are moments that I will never forget, and they never complained when a planned six weeks turned into six months.
After feverishly house hunting and several more disappointments, we finally found something, and when my daughter was six months old, we moved into our own home, two hours away. As we drove away from my parents' house, I felt a pang. I'd never expected to spend six months living with my parents at 30, and I'd also never have guessed they'd be such an instrumental part in the first stage of my daughter's life.
We managed to navigate the time without really losing our tempers or ruining our relationship, and I will be forever grateful for the love they showed and continued to show us.
I knew I would miss them after that chapter in our relationship ended — and I do.
But when we moved into our own space and started to stretch our wings, it felt right. One day we might even move nearer them again. For now, we love our house, and our spare room is always open to them as the most cherished guests.
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