My in-laws lived with me for six months
A cautionary tale of family, fights, farts and a fuck load of wine.
When I say the words: “My in-laws lived with me for six months,” most people contort their faces into an expression of horror and say things like, “OMG, you are a saint!” or “You deserve a medal!”, and they are almost right. A medal is one more useless piece of shit around the house. I’d prefer an all-expenses trip to Bali (ALONE!) for my saintly sacrifice.
Let me set the (crime) scene. My partner Andrew is English, I’m Australian, and we met in London. We moved to Sydney just before our first son was born. Obviously, Australia is a very long way from England, so my inlaws (let’s call them Sue and Stu) have visited us from the UK at least once a year (excluding COVID) for the past nine-ish years. They’ve been very helpful with the kids, giving us some much-needed respite. Did I mention that we had twins two years after our first? Honestly, we couldn’t have survived without them.
During our years in Sydney, we lived in various rental properties. A thousand dollars a week will get you an unventilated underground toilet (complete with floating turds), so we could barely accommodate our own children, let alone another two adults. We always found somewhere nearby for Sue and Stu to stay when they visited, usually for three to six months. This worked pretty well because they had their own space but were close enough to see us regularly.
After nearly eight years navigating the hellscape that is the Sydney rental market (including six months with no fixed address, armed with nothing more than a “family CV” — the dog and cat were later removed for strategic reasons —and a desperate, pleading look in our eyes), we finally bought a house in my hometown, Perth.
We’re both in our forties, so it was a massive relief to FINALLY own a home. Sure, we’re now victims to a crippling mortgage that costs nearly three times what we used to pay in rent, but, HA! Look at us climbing the property ladder (OK, one rung) like rats up a drainpipe!
Did I mention that we also bought the house sight unseen? In my defence, I saw the property online and had a “good feeling” about it, so we made an offer, which got accepted. I just put it down to fate, the universe, or irresponsible decision-making. Whatever, let’s not get hung up on it.
One of the biggest selling points of the property was the studio — or “granny flat,” as we call them in Australia — a separate, self-contained accommodation with a bedroom, en suite, kitchenette and little living area. This seemed like a great solution for the in-laws.
We were on a high as the settlement went through, and we prepared for our big move across the country. Our east coast rental was packed up and loaded into a container then onto a train that travelled the 3,290 kilometres from Sydney to Perth (I make this sound super easy, but it took nearly five weeks to arrive during which we had to sleep on inflatable mattresses — DO NOT TALK ABOUT THE WAR).
When we arrived, our first impressions of the house were great. It was on a lovely, quiet street, not too far from the beach, with a big native garden out the front. It was also within walking distance of the local school and completely renovated inside. We couldn’t have asked for more — except maybe the ability to read a floor plan properly.
Upon closer inspection, we realised that the bedroom in the studio area is actually the master bedroom. Also, the studio was not really “separate” in the way you might hope when agreeing to live with your in-laws for six months each year.
By this stage, we were in too deep. Flights from the UK were booked, and wheels were in motion. As I accepted my fate, I made the studio nice for Sue and Stu. A new coffee table, fresh bedding, some artwork and a new rug were purchased. I felt pleased that we could offer them this space. We were doing a good thing.
As I forlornly moved all my stuff from the (GIANT WALK-IN) wardrobe upstairs and lugged it down to the (TINY AND DARK) spare bedroom, I lamented the fact that the $[REDACTED BECAUSE IT MAKES ME FEEL SICK] monthly mortgage repayments would only afford me a small, dimly lit room directly next to the noisiest part of the house — the kitchen.
Sue and Stu arrived from the UK, thrilled with their new digs. As they moved their things upstairs into my spacious TOP FLOOR, ENSUITE ROOM, with a LEAFY, PANORAMIC outlook over the suburb and a WALK-IN wardrobe, my heart broke a little. It’s fine, I reassured myself, as I googled, “How to let more natural light into a small, dark room”. At least the sun won’t wake me at 5 am, I thought. Every cloud, a silver lining, etc.
That evening, as we tucked into our tiny bed and bumped elbows trying to read (that’s not a euphemism, I was too sad for sex), we noticed a strange sound. It was the theme tune to Strictly Come Dancing, followed by raised voices and some inaudible bickering.
Did I mention that our (SMALL AND DARK) spare bedroom shared a wall with the studio living space? I tried to put it out of my mind and return to my book, but I heard a loud bang (my father-in-law’s head hitting the wall), followed by snoring that vibrated the foundations of the house.
Sue: “STU! YOU'RE SNORING!”
Stu: [befuddled] “NO, I’M NOT!”
We sat up and looked at each other confused. A few minutes later, there was another thud as Stu’s head met the wall again, and the snoring recommenced. It was akin to the sound of a shovel being dragged across a gravel road by the Grim Reaper.
The following morning, I awoke to the sound of chairs being arranged outside my bedroom window. Stu and Sue had set themselves up with a pot of tea for a morning brew in the garden.
Sue: “Another tea, Stu?”
Stu: “Oh yes, thanks, Sue.”
Sue: “Did you see that old Tom from the village has died?”
Stu: “Which one was he?”
Sue: “Worked in the butcher’s shop.”
Stu: “Oh, that Tom.”
Sue: “Yes, the funeral is next Tuesday.”
Stu: “Never liked him.”
[Faaaaart noise]
Sue: “Stu!”
Stu: “What Sue?”
Sue: “Stop it”
Stu: “More tea Sue?”
Sue: “Yes, thanks, Stu.”
Six months wouldn’t feel like THAT long, would it?
As many of you with parents of retirement age will know, the lack of routine and diminished human interactions seem to cause some minor oddities. Most sane people in their forties would not live with their parents (by choice), so these “quirks” would likely slip under the radar. But not in our new intergenerational living set-up.
For example, a trip to the supermarket — something that took a maximum of two hours in the past — suddenly became a full-day expedition for Sue and Stu.
Us: “So, what do you both have planned today?”
Them: “We need to get some olive oil.”
And that was that. Their full day was planned:
8 am - 10 am: 38 cups of tea in robes
10 am - 12 pm: Get ready to go out
12 pm - 4 pm: Go out to purchase olive oil
4 pm - 6 pm: 3 bottles of wine
6 pm: Strictly Come Dancing
We also realised that Sue and Stu thought we were unemployed (despite the need to pay for the $[redacted] monthly mortgage repayments). The cause of the confusion arose from our remote working arrangements. So now there were four of us in the house all day with quite different agendas.
For example, Andrew would be on Zoom calls with clients, and Stu would spontaneously appear beside his desk.
Stu: “Morning Andrew! Did I tell you about this podcast I’ve been listening to? It’s about how you should cut pasta and bread out of your diet if you want to live longer.”
Andrew: “I’m on a call, Dad.”
Stu: “Did you hear about how they’ve proven ghosts are real?”
Sue [from the other room]: “WE’RE GOING TO ALDI FOR SAUSAGES. CAN WE GET YOU ANYTHING?!”
Like any boomer dad, Stu is also very set in his ways (don’t get me started on his insistence that chorizo is pronounced chorOzo). Whether things make logical sense is irrelevant to Stu.
For example, our pool cover had collected a lot of leaves. The normal way to remove them is with a blower (dreaded devil’s machine, I know!) or a broom. So, you can imagine my surprise when I looked outside to see Stu standing over the pool with a stick vacuum in hand. I was even more shocked when he sucked water from the top of the pool cover into our vacuum.
We also concluded that retirement meant Sue and Stu were possibly spending too much time together. Stu had worked away for periods of their marriage, but now they were together 24/7.
Sue: “Stu! Would you stop eating that? You don’t need any more cheese.”
Stu: “Would you stop it, Sue?”
Sue: “You’ve just become a BIG, FAT MAN.”
Stu: “I don’t care how I look.”
Sue: “You can’t go to the beach like that. Greenpeace will come and throw a net over you!”
Stu: “I’ve had enough. I’m going to bed.”
Sue: “You‘re damn right you’ve had enough. Enough cheese!”
Most parents of school-aged kids know the vibe of the working week. The days are busy and the evenings are your time to slap on your stretchy pants, sort dinner, help with homework, clean up and prep for the next day.
But being in Australia for Sue and Stu was a holiday. Every afternoon at 4 pm, they cracked a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc on our deck. I realise that any self-respecting English person on holiday wouldn’t wait till 4 pm to crack their first bottle, but let’s just say that our recycling bin simply wasn’t up to the task. Sue and Stu had to take their own bottles to the recycling facility, which was also a full-day excursion.
There were times (most days) when I needed to feel frumpy and lazy and yell at the kids in privacy. I simply couldn’t put on my happy, smiley “gentle parenting” face all the time. As the weeks turned into months, I started withdrawing from the family socialising. I made excuses not to go on outings. I felt like a complete cunt, but I could not bring myself to do it.
Me to me:
“Stop being a selfish arsehole! Plenty of cultures embrace intergenerational living.”
“Yes, but I have no privacy and I’m feeling suffocated!”
“Suck it up, princess. You agreed to this, and you just need to practice radical acceptance, or the next six months will feel like torture.”
*Tries to practice radical acceptance of the situation but can not accept it.*
“I can’t accept my current reality because I hate it, and I want it to end. Why am I so shit at setting personal boundaries!?”
“Because you’re a people pleaser, which stems from a long-held fear of abandonment.”
“Why you gotta do me like that?
“You should just turn your frown upside down and stop being a miserable bitch.”
“How many years until they’re not able to climb the stairs to the master bedroom?”
“You are going to hell.”
*Sobs.*
Eventually, the six months were up, and it was time for Sue and Stu to return to the UK. There was the usual chat about when they would return, but I tried to keep things vague.
What was genuinely awful about the situation is that I really do love Sue and Stu, but this new living arrangement was a festering breeding ground for resentment. No amount of positive pep talks or self-help thinking could get me out of this familial funk.
So many people I spoke to (yes, I spoke to ANYONE who would listen) couldn’t believe I’d managed six months. They said it was utter madness, and they couldn’t last six hours with their in-laws. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was “bad” for not being able to tolerate it.
Finally, I arrived at the conclusion that I usually come to (after months or years of painful struggle): I am not perfect, I am not a saint — I am human. What a fucking punch in the guts that is. Also, a relief. Living with your in-laws is HARD! Hell, living with my own family is hard! I DO need my own space, and I would prefer it if it’s the TOP-FLOOR MASTER BEDROOM WITH THE VIEW away from the kids! There, I said it.
It’s almost time for Sue and Stu to return to Australia again, but this time, we’ve agreed on eight weeks instead of six months. Check me out setting boundaries. In the meantime, I’m training my resting bitch face into something resembling a smile. Eight weeks isn’t that long, is it?
I’ve also ordered a larger recycling bin.
Wish me luck.
Really funny, Sara! Your "me to me" conversation sounds mighty familiar. I do a lot of that! Good luck to you all on the upcoming eight weeks of co-habitation.
I really relate! Thanks for writing that.
I think the problem is that , that generation are generaly so selfish and oblivious that they are a pain to be with.
In a true multi generation house hold such as Mexican , Turkish, or Italian, they would be helping out so much you wouldn't go nuts.
They wouldn't be drinking at 4 and just loudly hassling each other while pounding cheese and waiting to die.
Of course if you were in a different culture the help would have all sorts of other strings attached and would probably drive you equally nuts!
I had this same problem with my and my wife's boomer parents who don't help at all but just sit around thinking they are on holiday and hassle us .
We are the change.
A special breed.
The best