Additional Coverage:
- My 2 kids and I are living with my parents before moving to Chicago. I’m learning that asking for support isn’t a weakness. (businessinsider.com)
Back to the Nest, Again: Finding My Village in My Childhood Home
This spring, I moved back in with my parents. Again.
The first time was during the pandemic’s early days. My daughter was a newborn, the world felt chaotic, and hospitals weren’t allowing partners in delivery rooms.
After a frantic search for alternative arrangements, my mom convinced her doctor to deliver the baby, and we packed our lives into my dad’s little red car, expecting a two-week stay. Five months later, we finally left.
That time was a blur: new-parent exhaustion fueled by endless dad-made coffee, walks discovering hidden neighborhood gems, old movies, and even some intergenerational puzzle-related squabbles. It was chaotic, sweet, and our way of “making it work.”
Now I’m back, this time with two kids, ages 3 and 5. My husband started a new job in Chicago, so we’re staying with my parents while we house hunt and finish out the school year.
I anticipated stress: cramped quarters, generational clashes, and the awkwardness of sharing a kitchen (seriously, who opens three jars of Dijon?). I steeled myself for the grind of solo parenting without any solo space.
Instead, I’ve experienced a surprising crash course in co-parenting – a messy, heartwarming reminder that raising kids doesn’t have to be a one or two-person job. My mom has become the queen of car bagels, lunches, and laundry, always ready to diffuse a tantrum with snacks and games. My dad, fluent in playground politics and bedtime stories, has taken over bike-riding lessons.
Relinquishing control has been both vulnerable and liberating. Letting other adults take charge, even if it’s not “my way,” has provided not just logistical help (uninterrupted showers are a luxury!), but crucial emotional support. It’s a comforting feeling to not parent in a vacuum.
My parents aren’t perfect, and neither am I. But amidst the Goldfish crumbs and endless replays of “Moana,” we’ve found a rhythm. “The village” isn’t some mythical ideal; sometimes, it’s just your parents down the hall quietly loading the dishwasher while you collapse on the couch.
I’ve learned that accepting help is an act of trust, and asking for support isn’t weakness, but resilience. Family takes many forms: in our case, it’s one big house, three generations, and a nightly debate over bedtime kisses.
We’ll be moving to Chicago soon, and I’ll miss the unexpected closeness of this time: the way my kids greet their grandparents each morning, the way my dad makes me coffee without my asking. This period has been exhausting, beautiful, and loud. It’s reminded me that parenting is best as a chorus – sometimes off-key, often out of sync, but always perfectly imperfect.