Opinion: Janet Christie - Not being able to interfere in your grown-up children’s lives is one of the downsides of Covid
Middle’s moving house and I’m not able to get in there and help him which is piling on the guilt.
“He can manage fine,” says Youngest, barely looking up from her gramming.
“Just because he’s not asking for help doesn’t mean he doesn’t need it,” I say.
“Probably does,” she says. “Yeah, he’s on it,” says Eldest.
“Nonsense.”
“Sometimes when people say to you, ‘leave us alone, you’re smothering us’, it means ‘leave us alone you’re smothering us’,” says Youngest.
“He’ll be fine,” says Eldest.
“Hmph. Just because someone’s travelled alone to Australia and driven a flatbed truck from Perth to Melbourne across The Outback or... lived in Portugal in the cab of a waffle van for months on end and cooked pizzas for hundreds of people at raves... or knows more about orienteering and climbing and health and safety than I ever will... does not mean they’re fine.”
“Kind of does,” says Youngest.
“Well, his parka fell off the back of that truck in the Outback - pricey it was too, full Arctic wear I’d got him - bet it’s still there. What does that tell you?”
“That it was summer in Australia and he didn’t need it?”
“Anyway, I can’t help him. Can’t get in.”
“Good,” she says. “Cleaning our rooms upsets you. The crying… ridiculous.”
True. When they all lived with me the last pre-house move clearing of children’s rooms was harrowing. That’s all I’m saying for legal/moral/trust reasons (folds cardigan tighter round chest, purses lips and moves on).
But I can’t keep my nose out so I send Middle a timeline of tasks. “And I’ll shampoo the carpet once you’ve gone, that way it’s all legal.”
“Oh God. Only yourself to blame,” says Youngest.
“Aw, thanks ma,” says Middle.
Arriving with the Rug Doctor I look around his now empty flat. Impressive. Nothing left apart from a few sundry items in a box he’s obviously going to collect after I’ve shampooed: that lovely little pottery vase he made in primary school which always makes me so proud.
“So perfect - it’s as if the teacher made it,” I always say.
“They did. I stole it,” he always says.
His high school yearbook he always wants to chuck.
“No! Everyone’s in it,” I always say.
“I’m not,” he says. “I was off.”
Must have forgotten them. I’ll take them to his new place when it’s legal. I knew I was needed.