Today I read on the BBC New website that an elderly couple in Venice have had to seek legal help because their 41 year old son refuses to leave home. Despite having a job, this shiftless twonk still expected his poor Mama, who has had to be hospitalised due to the stress this oversized cuckoo is causing her, to cook his meals and wash and iron his clothes. And I’ll bet you anything you like if he pays any dig money at all, it’ll be a pittance. Surely there comes a time when it’s right for all sides for the adult child to leave home and make their own way? Now, I do know that Italian mothers can be a bit mollycoddling, as can mothers of sons the world over. My two brothers would sit on their arses while my mum and I cleaned round them and when I protested my mother would tell me that cleaning was “women’s work”, despite being quite happy for my dad to do shopping and cooking. But I think that in the 21st century it is insanity not to at least teach your children how to look after and care for themselves. My 14 year old daughter can wash her own clothes, make meals and does the washing up among other things and we involve her in budgeting and shopping. If only I could get her to clean her room, which, I’m sure like most teen’s bedrooms, looks like the aftermath of a nuclear strike followed by a fight between Godzilla and King Kong, where they’ve stopped for lots of cups of coffee and left the mugs lying around while trying on lots of clothes which they have then “hung up” on the floor. With the curtains closed. I’m 100% confident that if I’d had a son, he’d be doing his fair share too, if not more – if I had my way, I’d have sent back my OH for re-training in housekeeping.
My brother-outlaw (as in not in-law) lived at home until he was 34 and his leaving was only prompted by his girlfriend getting pregnant (don’t get me started on that! Two people still living at home and not knowing how to use contraception – sheesh!) and their having to get a house together. He was working, gave my parent-outlaws a pittance and spent the rest on LPs and videos, whereas his younger brother had left home at 22 to live with me. I do remember at the time my mum worrying that my wee Nana (dad’s mum – who was one of those genteel little white haired grandmothers) would be scandalised that Gee and I were moving in together. Bless her though – when we told her she immediately started rooting in cupboards for things to give us and said that if she had the chance, she would have done the same!
As previously blogged, I had a rough time growing up (sound of distant violins). Another symptom of my mum’s bi-polar disease was that she never seemed happy or settled in one place. By the time I left home aged 19 (then had to return briefly with my tail between my legs after the workmate we were renting a room from spent our rent money on drugs instead of paying it to the council) I had lived with my parents in 8 different homes in 2 different towns, so nowhere had actually ever felt like home. Also, tensions at home didn’t help so I was champing at the bit to get out and make my own way.
I am well aware that it was much easier back then to get a house or a flat. We went the route after our first disastrous attempt at flat sharing (and a couple of non-starting forays into the private rented sector where some lovely potential flatmates stole our giro) of applying to the council for a flat and after only 3 months we got a ground floor flat with what seems nowadays the ridiculously low rent of £20 a week! After a year we moved to a tenant run housing co-op in another part of the city to be nearer new jobs, where we lived for 10 ½ years on the 19th floor of a multi-storey. Then when Vee was toddler and having been told by the council that unless we wanted the dark, damp and pokey wee ground floor flat they were offering we needed to have another child (!) we applied for a were accepted into a shared-ownership scheme with a housing association, where we pay mortgage for 25% of a house with a garden and pay rent on the other 75% - we have lived here for nearly 11 years.
We have pretty much accepted that, for the next 8-10 years at least, it’s likely that Vee will continue to live with us. Rising costs not only of rented accommodation but also of domestic fuel, travel plus the alarming cost of student loans and tuition fees outside of Scotland, mean that in order not to land her with massive debts before she even starts, we’re happy for her to stay with us while at college and university.
I find it actually quite a pleasant thought and I know that lots of parents will tell you that as long as your offspring chip in with chores and some cash towards bills and the things they need, it can be a happy and harmonious set up, more akin as your child grows older to co-housing than parenting. And I also think that, if things continue to go the way they are going in this country run by goons, it’s pretty likely that we may still all end up living under the same but bigger roof as she has relationships and maybe a family of her own and as we age disgracefully. I quite fancy at some point far in the future being on hand for babysitting and helping out, but we’ll see, we’ll see.
Back to our Italian scallion – if it were my son I wouldn’t have gone to a consumer advice organisation – although I must admit that the idea of Esther Rantzen, Lynne Faulds-Wood or Anne Robinson coming along with a film crew and sticking a mic in his face, shaming him into leaving would be hilarious. No, I’m surprised that Mama and Papa haven’t thrown all of his things out of the window (and into the canal – eeeughh!), stuck him in the nearest gondola and told him to “Vaffanculo”. Or even better, (sticks cotton wool in cheeks a la Marlon Brando) I’d bringa da boys around for some good old fashioned family persuasion.
Kids, eh?
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