Three Generations Under One Small Roof

Less than six months ago, we added one more generation to the two in our household.  My mother moved in.  This was no simple change.  My husband, son, mother and I were all grieving.  My father had succumbed to cancer after a seven-year battle.  Five days before my dad died, my mother-in-law died of a sudden massive stroke.  One death was a blow, two deaths just took us out of the game completely.  Someday I will write more about that week in September.  Not yet.

Fast forward to present-day.  The four of us live comfortably in our home.  My husband no longer walks around the house in his boxers, though my son is not deterred.   He and his boxers are all over the house.   We have settled into a rhythm.  My mother, a lively 75-year-old woman, does dishes, empties the trash, and washes my son’s clothes.  My teenager is LOVING this.  He has avoided chores for months.  But this week is spring break and Grandma is on vacation.  Not literally.  She’s still here, but the only dirty dishes she’s touching are her own and she’s NOT cleaning them.  The sink is piled high after one day without Grandma at the faucet.  What did we do before she moved in?  I can’t remember!

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