WHAT EMPTY NEST?
Bellies are full, PJs are on, the home is cosy and the wolf has backed away from the door. My two children are watching a film with a deafening soundtrack that pierces right through me, and I can barely hear the news on the radio as I put on a load of washing and finish up in the kitchen. I have brought home the bacon, kept house and nurtured my young for another day.
‘How old are your little ones?’ you might ask, and the answer is somewhat embarrassing for all three members of my nuclear family: my kids are in their 20s and, while I adore the bones of them, I am worn down by this level of parental care, not to mention financial support, which they still need and I desperately want to provide. But I know co-residential motherhood for two and a half decades is taking its toll on me, and I resent it at times.
