I'm a boomerang kid at 38

Times

13 hours ago

The hallway of my mum's new-build maisonette looked like the 'after' pictures of the world's least fun car boot sale. Huge blue and red laundry bags bulging with clothes, battered suitcases, baby toys, coats thrown carelessly and a rogue bag of cables that even the Dalai Lama wouldn't have the patience to untangle. Standing to one side, trying to remain calm, was my 78-year-old mum. 'How long are you staying for?' she joked. 'TBC,' I grimaced back.
This was in January when my partner and I, along with our one-year-old son, moved in with my mum while the 'fixer-upper' house we bought as our first family home was, uh, fixed up. It saved us thousands but everyone — apart from the baby — was nervous.
I'm definitely not the only one moving back home. A recent survey by the British bank TSB found that 80 per cent of first-time buyers moved back in with their parents to get onto the property ladder.
My mum has been living alone for more than 30 years. First in the house I grew up in, then in the pristine new flat she downsized to a few years ago. She's no Hyacinth Bucket but she was used to having everything just so. When she left a room in the morning it would look the same way when she returned at night — and the same could very much not be said once we moved in.
For me and my partner, there were other worries. There's only one TV, and our viewing habits, dinner timings and entire routine were different from my mum's. The space was small. Perfect for one, maybe two people, but three adults and chaos monkey? Nope. Too small. There's nowhere to escape.
We also had to go back to sharing a bedroom with our son again after finally getting him settled into his own room. And I don't know if you've ever tried to work from home with your boomer parent in the house but I'd compare it to trying to work in a room with an affectionate labrador that happens to have the stealth of a monster truck and the street smarts of an undercover spy. However, in the five months we spent living with her, I learnt some valuable things.
The first I knew before we moved in but I really knew it by the time we left: how lucky we were to have the option to do this in the first place. To have family in the city you live and work in isn't a given. To have them in London, the most expensive place to live in the UK, and round the corner from your life, your work and your kid's nursery is like having a winning lottery ticket in your purse. Mum was patient and kind. She kept our son entertained while we made him dinner, put up with him wrecking her curtains and carpet, and coped with my snapping at her that I was 'trying to work' for approximately 12 hours a day.
The second was that you really only know someone when you live with them. Like most children, my relationship with my mum was previously frozen in time. We revert to type the minute we're in the same room: I am always the mouthy boundary-pusher and she is always the warrior-like matriarch whose word is final. But the truth, of course, is that we're different now, both made softer and harder by the toll life takes, by age and by motherhood itself. Living with each other forced us to reckon with the people we actually are, rather than the family personas we used to take on.
Three years ago my mum was diagnosed with Parkinson's, something we've all been in denial about since. But I needed to see how it affected her life. At present, the answer is not much. However, I now know the ways in which that will change and what I can do to help when it does, because I am under the skin of her day-to-day life in a way you can't be when you check in by phone once a week or see each other for Sunday lunch.
In the reverse, she knows what type of mother I am and that I am finally, for the first time in my adult life, in a relationship with a functional, kind man. Some nights, after I'd go to bed, my partner and my mum would sit up and chat. I only found this out afterwards, and how much he enjoyed it.
And lastly, that time she had with her young grandson was precious. They imprinted on each other in a way I never could have predicted. His face still lights up when Grandma enters the room. He took his first steps on her velvet-soft rug. He runs into her place and goes straight for the window they'd look out of together, counting the cars on the street below. We all cried when the time came for us to finally move out because we knew that blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment in time meant more than anything.
Amy Grier
What it's like to live with my parents at 23
by Esme Gordon-Craig
When I was younger I enjoyed imagining a 23-year-old-version of myself. She was living in a small but elegant flat in London, maybe with a boyfriend, but I also considered that a couple of best friends would be fun too. I pictured having the perfect office job with the perfect office outfit, along with all the emotional and financial freedoms that would follow. This fantasy, a product of overwatching The Devil Wears Prada, is yet to come true. Instead, having now reached the great age of 23, I find myself living at home with my parents, cushioned among all the emotional and financial security that brings.
This is increasingly common for my generation. The cost of living crisis has ensured that those of us in our early twenties who have the opportunity to live at home will happily sacrifice our independence for the sake of saving, or even just affording to live. We see it as a temporary situation, one that might one day lead to the ultimate goal of adulthood: having a home of our own.
Having the option to live at home as an adult is both a blessing and curse. It's a blessing for many reasons, an obvious one being no rent. Then there are the added extras: I have my washing done for me, bills are nonexistent and a home-cooked meal is guaranteed every night.
• The reality of living with your parents in your twenties
However, as much as I love my parents, there are downsides. Number one, if you want the perks of being supported like a child you have to accept being treated like one too. There are no drunken nights out ending in early-morning cereal binges and no hungover lie-ins that blend beautifully into a day-long movie marathon. I can't even guarantee access to the TV. World War Three can kick off with the simple act of not turning off a light switch or forgetting to open the gate for the postman, and remoulding one's life around the routine of one's parents can be exceptionally challenging when everything down to the hot water has a regimented schedule.
Then there's the problem of socialising. I had a boyfriend who was living at home after he graduated. I wouldn't say this was the reason we ended it but coming downstairs to be greeted by his parents every morning added an element of awkwardness. The big issue for me is that, unlike my ex, home is nowhere near London. It's nowhere near anything, really, and to make matters worse, I can't drive. Yes, I still get lifts on nights out.