Flying the nest

The other day my mum looked at me with tears in her eyes and said “you’ve finally flown the nest”.

I didn’t want to break the bad news to her and Dad that I hadn’t actually moved out.

In fact, I was busy sitting on their sofa, watching their TV and eating my way through a packet of chocolate biscuits I’d found in their cupboard.

But I knew what she meant.

In the excitement of settling down with my boyfriend, I’ve built a life for myself away from the home I grew up in.

When I first left home, to go to University, Mum missed me for about two weeks until she realised she was finally free. Then I turned up again with my washing and didn’t leave for five years.

When I had a Quarter Life Crisis and spent more time on board the Vengabus than anywhere near the property ladder, she always had her phone on in case I needed rescuing with a sick bucket.

But now, at the grand old age of 27, I’m officially boring – as I swan around homeware shops asking questions like “is this sofa scotchgarded?” and “how much is this spatula?”

Parenting teaches you to bring someone up so that they don’t need you anymore. But luckily for mum, I’m definitely not the Destiny’s Child definition of independent yet.

Although I did buy the shoes on my feet (slippers) and the clothes I’m rocking (dressing gown).

I guess this is just the marker that we are both moving to the next phases of life.

She’s one step closer to freedom and I’m one step closer to understanding the real pain of cleaning chocolate biscuit crumbs out of the carpet.

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