Living With Parents: The Newlyweds' Guide

After the wedding, but before the dream home, this writer and her husband took the plunge and moved back to the homes in which they grew up. How did living with parents this time around stack up? Read on to see...

A few months ago, I was planning my wedding from my small one-bedroom apartment in the Los Feliz neighborhood of Los Angeles. I loved everything about that apartment: The gorgeous crown molding, the original light fixtures from the 30's and especially the dreamy hardwood floors. On days when I felt particularly stressed out or completely uninspired, I would lie flat on the floor and stare at the ceiling. After a few minutes, my mind would clear -- I'd jump up, ready to face whatever challenge confronted me.

But after celebrating our wedding in May, and our lease ending on the last day of July, my husband Chris and I sadly moved from that apartment. We had originally moved to LA to be close to my office, but once I started working from home as a freelance writer, it no longer made sense. To make the commute easier on Chris, we decided to move out of the city and back to the suburbs, closer to his office. And as it happened, our moving plans seemed completely serendipitous. A friend's parents had recently inherited a house and planned on renting the one they had been living in. They needed tenants, we needed a place to live. On paper, it sounded heavenly.

Their three-bedroom house is just a 20 minute drive from Chris' office and we were excited about all the extra space. I'd finally have a proper home office, we would have a formal dining room, living room, family room and best of all, a washer and dryer. After agreeing on a move-in date, around mid-August, we packed up our apartment. But during the move, I'd often crumble into a weepy mess. The apartment was the first place we lived together; it was the first place where we'd felt like real grown-ups. It was in that apartment's living room that he proposed. After living at home and then with a roommate, it was the first place I considered my own.

Since we planned on moving into the rental house within a few weeks of moving out, we decided to stay with my in-laws, rather than rent a short-term apartment. They live very close to our rental so the commute for Chris wouldn't be bad at all. Plus, I get along with them swimmingly; in fact, my mother-in-law and I didn't butt heads once during the entire wedding planning process! We had quite a few boxes stored at their house, most of our furniture stored in my father's garage and the rest we kept at my grandparents. Thankfully, the three houses are all within a short distance of each other.


We set up temporary shop in Chris' childhood room, which had been converted sometime ago into a guest room. Along with our cat, a few office supplies and about four sets of clothes, we made a home as best we could. However, as wonderful as my in-laws are, within a few days, the walls began to close in on us. Among the hiccups: My father-in-law's dog, Max, who is a bit of a hellion. Max regularly and wildly barks at the noisy water heater, the chimes of the clock, the garden sprinklers and television programming he finds offensive. (While he's a tough critic, he inexplicably approves of most SciFi dramas.) We decided it would be in everyone's best interests to keep our cat and the pooch apart, meaning our cat's litter box was kept in the room with us... which smelled just as wonderful as it sounds. While we had brought a few things into the room with us, the things we craved most -- books, favorite pieces of clothing, little mementos of our previously independent lives -- were packed away and spread out piecemeal among the three residences.

Soon after moving to my in-laws, our our new landlords sent us a very apologetic email explaining that renovation on their new house was delayed and that, unfortunately, our move-in date would need to be pushed back. I fell apart as I read their email, and unfairly lashed out at Chris, crying that at least he was able to leave for work every day. During those days, I'd run unnecessary errands just so I could have my own space. I'd wander the aisles of Target. Or I'd bring my laptop with me to a coffee shop, try to get some work done, then find myself hopelessly distracted by people watching. We needed a change.

We met my grandparents, who live a few miles from Chris' work, for lunch one weekend; they were planning an epic cross-country road trip that would take them -- and their large dog -- away through October. It was still early August, but they hoped to leave within a few days and needed someone to stop by and pick up the mail. Before we even thought to ask, they invited us to stay at their house until ours was ready. We moved in right away.

At first, we stayed in the guest room that I had often stayed in as a little girl. The two of us, our cat and her litter box squeezed into the tiny space. As unromantic as it sounds, we took turns sleeping on the twin daybed, or if we were feeling sporting, we'd play rock-paper-scissors to win the mattress. The unlucky spouse made a bed on the floor and woke up with a smarting backache in the morning. Oddly, the absurdity of the whole situation brought us closer than we'd ever been. For the first time, we experienced the exact frustrations.

My grandparents delayed their trip first by a few days, then by a few weeks. Late at night, when I felt the most stressed and when everyone else was asleep, I would lie on the wood floor of my grandparents' dining room, hoping for the clarity my apartment's horizontal therapy provided. No such luck. Chris dealt with his stress by spending even more time than usual online. Unsurprisingly, to me anyway, this interest of his lead to an unofficial title around the house: computer guy. He helped my grandparents configure their Wi-Fi settings, hooked up their printer and miraculously repaired their wonky DVD player.

Returning home after living on your own brings about a whole new set of discoveries. For years, I had fooled myself into believing I knew how to properly load a dishwasher. When cleaning up after dinner one night, my grandmother, gently and sweetly in that tone only grandmothers have mastered, reminded me that bowls need to be stacked a certain way, and plates another. Further, I'd forgotten how much my grandmother enjoys folding laundry. After pulling a load of clothes from the dryer, I'd leave them in a basket to be folded at later date. Or perhaps never. Imagine my complete surprise when I'd come home to find all of our laundry perfectly folded. My thongs and Chris' boxers were always neatly placed at the top of the basket.

When my grandparents finally hit the open road with their dog in tow, we were able to spread out in the house. Still, we felt stunted. We felt like we were moving backwards. When friends asked about our situation, our explanations were supremely long-winded. We were self-conscious and embarrassed. Right around that time, the New York Times Magazine published its article about 20-somethings. Were we these mooching adults who refused to grow up? On the surface, it certainly seemed that way. After living independently for a few years and getting married, we found ourselves acting like vagabonds between our childhood homes. But now, looking back on it all, I don't regret it. Renting a short-term apartment simply to prove our independence seems about the most immature act of all. Rather than fork over a month's rent to an anonymous leasing company, we divided what we saved by not paying rent and gave it to both sets of families to thank them for their gracious support.



And now, our transition period has finally come to a close. Last weekend, more than a month after we had expected, we moved into our rental. The living room furniture is eerily, and completely coincidentally set up in the same way it was in our apartment. Sets of glassware, mixing bowls and dinnerware we received as wedding gifts three months ago have finally been unpacked and are now making their homes in our big kitchen. Looking around our new place, we find ourselves beaming. Being without a home to call our own wasn't how we pictured life as newlyweds, but in the end, it was absolutely worth it.


And in case you're wondering, the home's hardwood floors have me swooning; they're wonderful stress-relievers.