There Is No Place Like Home

I must confess complete agreement with the familiar adage, “There is no place like home.” Home is, of course, much more than a structure or mere lodging. At its best, “home” should be a retreat from the world and a place that both nurtures us and fosters our aspirations. It should provide a support system that allows us to both rest and grow as needed. Home should be the place where we can remove the mask that we wear to the rest of the world and be our most authentic self.

Our home, somewhat shaken by the addition of our adult son, has gone through some times of conflict that have ultimately led to growth for all three of us--my husband, my son, and myself. The adjustment of living together again after so many years apart have led to periods of misunderstanding and frustration. But what began as a necessity has eventually become, to my amazement, a blessing.

There is the advantage to me of having my son’s advice regarding the type of computer that might be best when I decided to acquire a laptop. He has, as an extension of his computer knowledge, transferred all of my contacts to my I-phone, making my life so much more manageable. He was also able to quickly advise me that having my own printer was worth the time we had spent attempting to access a printer that is incompatible with my new laptop.

There is also an even greater gift in the support my son has provided to his nephew, my grandson, whose parents are in the midst of a divorce. Uncle Matt is yet another man in my six-year-old grandson’s life, other than Daddy and Grandpa. Uncle Matt is the man who has the time and energy to play “Shirts Off Ping Pong,” a lively game played, yes, you guessed it, without shirts for those “manly” men—Uncle Matt and my grandson who participate in the game.

So aside from the much-appreciated technical and family support that we have come to enjoy over the past two years, I was surprised to see another reward this morning. After having reached the conclusion that my son had little regard for his parent’s daily lives, and was merely tolerating us until he could afford to move out, he surprised me with a small but important gesture that I saw as a hopeful sign of his maturity and caring.

As I was backing my car out of the garage this morning to attend a class, my son motioned to me to stop, and brought me my cellphone that I’d unintentionally left on the charger. In my mind, a mere “Thank you” was insufficient for Matt’s attention to my oversight and taking action to assure that I had my cell-phone (my “life-line” really) on a particularly hectic day that included driving thirty miles north to attend class, eventually picking up my grandchildren, and then returning home. The cell phone represented my communication line with my grandchildren’s father and the means to call for assistance if I had had car trouble. Just about the time I’d given up on his caring about me, Matt reached out and did something thoughtful for me.

Perhaps this time together hasn’t been a waste at all if I can gain a few memories such as this.

"The Walton's"

Fifty-some years ago, I watched a television series based on the lives of a Depression-era family, “The Walton’s.” I’m sure I was attracted to the show mainly because the weekly episodes had so much similarity to the stories my mother told about her own experiences as a child of the Depression. Even though I knew that the program, “The Walton’s,” was probably an overly-idealized representation of the times, I watched the show each week and found myself longing for that wonderful era, for such understanding parents, for wise grandparents, and a houseful of brothers and sisters.

My mother’s stories were usually happy and it seemed to me that “The Walton’s” story lines merely confirmed her own childhood memories. One of her stories I heard most often was about the years that my mother and two of her sisters sang together in small country churches in southeastern Ohio as “The Scott Sisters.” She remembered that singing for a church meant more than merely entertaining; it also meant that her entire family ate well that day because of the carry-in dinners prepared by the ladies of the churches where they performed. But there were other stories, the sad ones, about the death of four little brothers and sisters during the influenza epidemic of 1918 that spoke to the harsh reality of those days.  

So why is it, despite evidence to the contrary, that we hold onto the impression that “the good old days” were so good? Why do we long for those days and think only of the charm of an earlier time without looking more truthfully at the unhappiness that was bound to have been as much a part of everyday life? Why do we romanticize those days when the truth is that there was poverty, hunger, and disease that we somehow manage to minimize if not overlook?

I think that this exaggerated view of families in the past serves to damage, to some degree, our current notions about what a family should look like and act like today. I’m sure that when we invited our son Matt to move back home two years ago, I was hopeful that our family would be somewhat like the days when our sons were in high school and the house was always a little chaotic with their friends running in and out, the phone ringing all the time, and all of us actually interacting with each other on a daily basis. I’ve probably idealized those years, too, but wouldn’t Matt’s move back home be a lot like the Depression-era families that included not just two, but sometimes three generations under one roof? Oh, and to think of the wisdom of the elders that was passed down to the younger generations--at least in the narratives of “The Walton’s.” So why did it come as a surprise to me that our son’s return home and combining of two generations did not bear any resemblance at all to the family that I had envisioned?

Why is it that I cannot see in my son, the musician, a young man who may have actually inherited from his grandmother the talent to be a successful singer and song-writer? Singing before an audience was for my mother a way of helping to feed her family. But, unfortunately, I see my son’s interest in music as a waste of time because it brings him no monetary reward or even a free meal.  Preparing for “open-mike night” only means time spent practicing instead of earning money or studying for his degree. It means listening to the strumming of chords while I’m trying to write a blog for my professor. It means, at least on one occasion, asking Matt—not kindly at all--to please find another place to play so that I could take the university’s math placement test, a timed exam, because I needed, “just forty-four more minutes! That’s all I’m asking for!”  

No, we are not “The Walton’s.” And Matt, the song-writer, may actually have as much or more talent than John-boy, the aspiring author who later wrote and narrated the “The Walton’s” series. But I am certainly not “Momma,” that patient and wise woman who skillfully handled the problems the family encountered in the weekly episodes. No, my friends, we are not “The Walton’s.”

A Letter to Boomerang Mom

Dear Boomerang Mom,

It seems to me that it is time for us to review some of the expectations I had when I moved home two years ago.

Yes, I know that I made quite the point of rejecting the notion (abhorrent to me to this very day!) of living in the basement. As I said at the time, I feared that I had become such a cliché to all of my friends because of my need to move back home that I found it utterly unthinkable that you would even suggest that I take up residency in the unfinished portion of the basement. You did not seem to understand at all my request to occupy the guest room on the main level and it was only under duress that you finally allowed me to do so. It grieves me to think that I even had to ask for this small alteration in your plans.   

While I do understand your need for me to remove my laundry from the dryer so that you may continue with your household duties, it seems to me that you have more than adequate time to carry my laundry to my room for me. I believe that with a bit of effort, you may be able to work this into your schedule.

As far as coming and going at all hours, this is the result of living on my own for more than eight years. I do not mean any disrespect, but have found it impossible to alter my previous lifestyle. I answered to no one, and I continue to reject any thoughts of being accountable to you, Dad, or anyone else. I am, after all, thirty-two years old.

When you asked last Saturday afternoon that I play my guitar at another time since you were taking a timed math test on your computer, I was quite put out at the way you phrased your request that I play my guitar elsewhere. Consideration and respect are absolutely essential if we are to live together peacefully.

And I would like you to reconsider my request (yes, the same request I’ve made twice before) for my own small refrigerator in my room so that I do not have to walk from one end of the house to the other for a beer. This is just a small matter of convenience that I’m asking for. I am not asking for a complete kitchen, just one small appliance.

Your son,

Matt

What Happened to the Plan?

In retrospect, the greatest mistake we made was failing to establish a time limit for our son’s temporary move back home. We’re now facing the clash of our preconceived ideas about how long he would need to finish college and the reality that he has lived with us for more than two years.

We understood the time necessary to find a part-time job. We understood the need to start off slowly in college, to “test the waters” after being out of school for eight years, and to find a balance between working and attending classes. But we do not understand why he is taking only nine credit hours this quarter and working only two and a half days a week.

The original plan was that Matt could complete his degree in one and a half to two years. Two years later, he still has more than a year left to finish, and then only if he significantly increases the number of hours he takes each quarter. Writing these words clarifies for me the disparity between the original plan and the reality of the many hours still remaining.

Our patience has been based on our desire for Matt to get that all-important degree. It’s a somewhat selfish desire on our part. A man with a degree is less likely to return to us requesting financial help. After all, we’re facing retirement in just a few years. He needs to be financially independent of us. The truth is looming: it seems that we want a degree for Matt more than he does.

And since that was the reason for allowing him to move back home, we need to reassess with Matt his need to continue living here and whether he really wants to finish school or not.

Cause and Effect

Because there are so many young people who have had to return to their parents’ homes in the last few years, it would only be natural to wonder about the cause of this dilemma. I see it as a natural outgrowth of an economy where there are simply not enough jobs available that pay enough so that a son or daughter can live independently. It’s my opinion that the overall economy of the country is the problem.

One article I read recently indicated that young people today are undergoing some of the traditional rites of passage at a later age than previous generations. While the age for graduating from high school and getting a job or going to college hasn’t changed, moving out into an apartment or house, marrying and having children are occurring at later and later ages, if at all.

On the other hand, there are people who believe that this generation of twenty to thirty-year-olds were raised by baby-boomer parents who coddled them and handed them everything they wanted so that young adults are unable to make choices for themselves that will permit them to live independently. To these people, we as parents never taught our children about competition. We handed out trophies to everyone on the soccer team, regardless of their skill. And, furthermore, we’ve held on to the responsibility for their problems by allowing them to move back home. We’re enabling them.

And then there’s that nasty word, “entitlement.” It seems that some people think that too many twenty-something’s believe that they have a right to the life-style of their parents--the life-style their parents worked at for thirty or more years--without having experienced the “lean” years where we, as parents, all started.

There may be any number of factors at work behind each individual’s need to move back home. No matter what the cause, this recent problem is becoming more widespread and is disturbing to both generations.  

Optimism: A Letter to My Son

People are not disturbed by things, but by the view they take of them.    

                                                                                    --Epictetus

With the dawning of each day, you will face new challenges. Some will seem minor; others insurmountable. Face these tests with a renewed spirit—the spirit of one who has experienced adversity and triumphed over it. Keep your focus on the present. If you must look back, do so only briefly as a guide to today’s decisions, but never to chastise yourself for minor indiscretions of the past.

Keep your mind busy. Learn all that you can about the things that interest you. Education is not just a matter confined to the classroom. Ask questions, read, and always keep an open mind. One who values knowledge will be confident and optimistic when facing the choices that life offers.   

Cultivate your friendships. Time spent with true friends is one of life’s greatest gifts. In times of trouble, friends will encourage and support you. And you will do the same for them.

Always be mindful of the One who made you. No matter where you are or what you face, He goes with you. Honor Him and seek His guidance in all things.

See the humor in life. Laugh. Sing. You’ve been given many talents. Use them. Write your songs and then share them with others. When you do, you lift their spirits.  That is more than many men can ever hope to achieve in a lifetime. Trust your talents. Trust yourself. And trust in the future.

The Right to Privacy

While not guaranteed by the Constitution, the right to privacy is a generally accepted tenet of our culture. Privacy may be thought of as actual or implied boundaries that seclude us and our possessions from others. We then selectively choose the degree to which others may acquire access to our domain.

One of the advantages to home ownership is the assurance of a reasonably high degree of privacy. Privacy affords us the freedom to say or do anything in our homes that is not otherwise unlawful. With the return of an adult child to one's home as a resident, privacy is diminished for both the parents and child.

Privacy, as I see it, includes the right to speak and not be overheard while expressing a personal opinion. The amount of time I now use moving covertly through the house to ascertain whether or not my son is present--an act made necessary because he is like a moving target, home one minute and gone the next--is a waste of my time. I do this so that he does not overhear conversations that may be about him.

Privacy is much like Honesty; it becomes most conspicuous when absent. Who knew it would have been wise to counsel our son on the degree of privacy The Girlfriend would be expected to afford us? The day she stormed into our home screaming angrily as she made her way to our son's room will not likely be forgotten. Or repeated.

Providing my son with a roof over his head had an unintended consequence: the loss of privacy for all of us. Staying on guard to watch what we say while determining whether or not he is home is somewhat daunting. But we can live with this. At least for now.