Generation Soup

What happens when different generations stop yelling on social media and have to actually live together.

Photo by Bruce Tang on Unsplash

I love my in-laws. They are good people. For 18 years they have been a constant, but distinctly separate part of my life. But, as time trudged on and health began to wane, it became inevitable that the lines would blur, and our lives would intertwine. So, at 88 years of age my mum-in-law, Winnie, came to live with us. Dad had to go into a care home and, as is the case these days, their house had to be sold to pay for it. So, Winnie arrived - traumatised at having to leave her husband of 65 years, tired from years of looking after him and feeling immense guilt for putting him in a home.

The first weeks were difficult as she made this adjustment, and left her friends, steady routine and spotless home behind to, God help her, move into our chaotic world. As for us, suddenly, our lives had to fit around hospital appointments, strange ‘nana’ food smells, like Spam fritters, filling the kitchen and walking aids appearing in every cupboard. But she’s a family member, I hear you cry. Surely that would be easier, right? Mmm…not necessarily.

In contrast with me and my husband, Paddy, Winnie is probably the most ‘normal’ person I know. She never says anything controversial, wacky or out of the ordinary. She never swears. Her house - her own house - was pristine, clear of clutter and distinctly beige throughout. This is a woman who had an attic with nothing but dust in it. She was a well thought of, and active member of her community, a church goer and, I think it’s safe to call her this: a ‘traditional wife’. She cooked and baked, cleaned and looked after everyone her whole life, as many women of her generation did. She doesn’t have any hobbies, other than reading Jodi Picoult novels and doing things with the Women’s Institute that involve jam. She does, however, take a keen interest in the minutiae of people’s lives and has a scarily accurate memory. She can recall every incident and accident that has befallen each person she has ever met, since the war. The upside to this is that I no longer need to set foot in my village, I just sent Winnie out with a Victoria sponge and she comes back laden with stories of who’s doing what to who and why. She’s like a geriatric Lady Whistledown.

Despite the enthusiastic village welcome, it’s not been an easy move for her. Her clinically clean world has been turned upside down by our ever-present carpet of moulting Labrador fur, rooms full of books and papers, scatter cushions that were mainly scattered on the floor, surfaces that remained undusted until asthma sets in, or visitors came (whichever arrived first) and piles of washing so high you could comfortably hide a small pony in it. At least I tidy up after myself as I go, unlike her son, who can make a kitchen look like a herd of heifers have just stampeded through it, just by making coffee and toast. If that wasn’t enough to finish her off, our ‘special’ eating habits – which can include bowls of cereal and/or wine for dinner (any time between 4pm and midnight) – have rendered her speechless. She soon took to making Paddy a ‘full English’ every morning to “put him on,” which roughly translated meant, “my son will die at your hands if I don’t step in and save him.” He put a stone on in a month. I realised quickly that our life was her definition of a living hell.

In an effort to make her feel welcome, I upped my game. My housework hours increased tenfold, while Paddy’s increased by approximately 3 minutes as he took on the additional task of regularly putting bleach down the toilet. It didn’t take long to observe Winnie’s reaction to this. My laboured, sweaty efforts - brushing down doghair-laden stairs, mopping floors, scrubbing out cupboards, wiping skirting boards and dusting the plants - went unnoticed. Meanwhile, golden boy’s attempt to load the dishwasher was met with an enchanted Disney princess face, followed by “oh, isn’t he good?” Yes, Winnie, he’s a diamond.

Paddy’s sensitivity and insight to his mother’s plight didn’t quite match my own either. His answer to ‘taking her mind off things,’ was to introduce her to ‘Breaking Bad’ and a variety of drug gang style miniseries. They had watched so many Columbian gang movies by month three, they could speak intermediate Spanish. Having been restricted to her hubby’s sports programmes and re-runs of Countryfile for years, this was quite a switch for Winnie, but surprisingly, she lapped them up.

Not everything, went down as well. I discovered TV sex scenes are just as excruciating to watch with the oldies when you’re in you’re an oldie yourself, as it is to watch them in your teens. One day, I was pottering about, half watching a George Michael documentary. It was at the part where he had been arrested for indecency or something, in a public toilet. I paused it as I tidied some magazines away and just as Winnie wandered in from the kitchen. She set off across the living room on the painfully slow shuffle towards ‘her chair’. I didn’t take much notice as she took her tiny, faltering steps, occasionally stopping to push her back into place and hold onto the sofa. Eventually, and with plenty of huffing and puffing, she eased herself down and got settled. We both looked at the TV screen at the same time, to find that I had pressed the pause button at the exact moment a close up of a news headline with a single word, had been spread across the length of the screen. ‘MASTURBATE’ it said.

“I think I’ll go and have a little read,” said Winnie and starts to reverse the agonising, slow process of leaving the room. I could have shut my massive gob and not made it worse but no, instead, I rambled on about how it was just a documentary about lovely George and it wasn’t rude, it was just, y’know, that bit when he got done for…y’know…doing some gay thing in a toilet, and it wasn’t even that bad, well… it was illegal, yes, but everyone knows he was set up, and we don’t have to watch…and don’t rush off Winnie…do you want a cup of tea?...a Hobnob, perhaps?

It’s absolutely true that you don’t really know someone until you live with them. The eighteen ‘polite’ years of small talk and genial interaction soon start to dissolve when you share a home. When the mask drops on all sides, it can be both a pleasant surprise and rude awakening. This was a revelation for all of us. If I had a quid for every time I was in full flow, ranting my way through every profanity not in the dictionary, only to find Winnie hovering behind me, I’d be minted. Now, when I swear, I follow it by saying “sorry Winnie,” whether she’s there or not, just in case. Thankfully, Winnie does have a sense of humour. Not about swearing and masturbation, and my woefully inadequate housewife duties, but generally, she’s a good stick.

I would not be so crass as to air my dear old mum-in-law’s annoying habits here, I will just gently suggest that she too, had one or two. It is to be expected. Living together is hard. If you are of different generations, it’s fraught with all kinds of misconceptions and misunderstandings, differing cultural and personal values and wildly different opinions. You see people as they really are, stripped of the niceties and tactful responses. Home is where you let all that go and that’s exactly how it should be. In the end, tolerance and a sense of humour become the only characteristics that really matter. Oh, and love. Let’s not forget that.

I’m happy to report that two years on, Winnie is still going strong. She now has her own little granny pad attached to our house, which she was beyond desperate to get into by the time it was built. I can’t think why. As for me, I often think back to our wedding, and Winnie, beaming with delight, sharing her happiness at our union with anyone who would listen. How could she possibly have known then, that her beloved son had just married a slovenly, potty-mouthed, feminist who watched programmes about masturbation in the middle of the afternoon, like some pervert? Well, she does now!

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