Moving back in with the parents

“You’re probably some 40-year-old loser who lives at home with his mum.”

This was yelled at one of my teammates in a typically ‘social’ game of touch rugby recently – pretty lame sledging, but a classic insult nonetheless.

I've had to move back in with my parents a couple of times since I first left home (admittedly because of my failure to function properly as an adult), and it is embarrassing. In my most recent stint, we had painters fixing up the place after the earthquakes. Every time I spoke to them I would try to pretend I was just visiting, coming up with a new feeble reason for being there every single day.

But why is living with your parents such a bad thing? Is it really so embarrassing to enjoy their company?    

Probably.

But it shouldn’t have to be. Many people end up moving back in with their parents, for various reasons, and we need to stand up for ourselves. When everything is weighed up, it’s actually not too bad a move.

There are obvious benefits to moving back to a parental house. I have never lived in a flat anywhere that is as comfortable and warm as my parents’ house is. Rather than looking at a ceiling-high stack of pizza boxes while scraping the burnt bits off some toast, at home I was watching satellite TV and savouring the fruits of both my parents’ labours in the kitchen.

I even reverted back to a teenage state, rebelliously defying the ageing process. I would hang out in my room listening to records, help myself to the change from my dad’s bedside table, enjoy the benefits of reliably-paid-for internet and power, and know that the dishes will eventually be washed. Instead of helping me with my high school homework, my parents helped me with my university essays; instead of being late to school, I was late for work.

But even though I slid back into my old routines, some elements of moving back home offered a glimpse into the future. Your social life will change because of your new/old pad. Because my parents live in rural North Canterbury, this put a sizable distance between me and most of my friends in Christchurch.

Not a problem. I merely had to pursue the same interests as my parents in order to stay sane. I found myself playing a lot of scrabble, keeping up to date with Coronation St, and baking scones. By seamlessly worming my way into my parents’ social activities, going to dinner parties with them, etc, I easily compensated for the absence of friends my own age. It presented a unique chance to experience middle age while still in my twenties, in a kind of mundane time travel.

Of course, this would not be a fair and balanced article without me acknowledging the minor drawbacks of the homeward pilgrimage – like, it could be considered a bit depressing, sleeping in a single bed with my childhood zoo animal-print bedsheets on it.

The fact that my old bedroom is now also my dad’s office added to the distinctly uncool atmosphere. Having my girlfriend to stay the night, only to be woken up early on Sunday morning by the beep and hum of the printer roaring into life, and my dad ambling in to pick up his GST returns, was definitely not a bonus.

I also do not miss the Groundhog Day repetition of having to explain the basic functions of the internet to my mum every time she downloaded a virus or insane toolbar on to her computer.

But more than anything, I found that living back with mum and dad as an adult made me appreciate them as people rather than parents. All of the realities of life that we face as young adults do not disappear as we get older. Your parents live in the same world as you, with all the same uncertainties, and moving back home makes you realise this.

Seeing your family at its best and worst – and having them see you the same way – allows for a level of empathetic understanding and appreciation that could not be witnessed as a child, or an adult just visiting for dinner or holidays. I don’t live with my parents anymore, but if needs be, I would happily move back. I don't care what the painters or the jerks at touch think.