Home sweet home – and clean laundry

Feb 15 2008 by Valerie Hill, Liverpool Daily Post

HALF-TERM once again brings moans from my sons of “We’re bored”, and irritated retorts from me of “Only boring people are ever bored”.

All this was by 5pm on Friday, an hour after the school had closed its gates. What joys in store for the week to come, I wonder, as I dodge another burst of teenage ennui, only to be hit, face on, by a dollop of adolescent angst.

They’ve long outgrown Jungle Bungle, Clown Town and Wacky Warehouse, although all those acres of soft foam are still irresistibly enticing to a clapped-out, middle-aged mother who’ll do anything for a damned good snooze while the youngsters have a good bounce around. (Age of children here regardless.)

The soccer dome, safari park and bowling alley are all summarily dismissed as “kids’ stuff” (“Aagh! But you are kids,” I want to scream). My alternative suggestions of museums, art galleries or Seacombe Ferry Aquarium don’t even merit a raised eyebrow from them.

Short of offering them a cloned credit card and telling them to book a flight to the Maldives, I am left at a loss as to what will entertain two teenage boys stuck at home with their mum for a week.

And then there’s the realisation: son number one only has two more years with us before he leaves for university, so surely I should try that extra bit harder to make his time left all the more special?

He, as he keeps telling us, can’t wait to leave the family abode. It’s too suburban, we’re too provincial and the lack of hot and cold running Lindsey Lohan look-a-likes puts a serious downer on his social life.

Younger brother agrees, although his major complaint is that he is not allowed to watch the Borat DVD within range of his parents’ hearing – which in my case is about five miles. (I know what’s about to kick off at Prescot Darby and Joan club before the police radio picks it up).

So, only 24 short months to go before my eldest boy waves goodbye and enters a life of all-night parties, student demos and compulsory Pot Noodle guzzling.

And if a book is opened during those three short years, he may emerge with a degree, be vaguely employable and buy a house of his own.

Then my husband and I will be able to return to a life of serenity, stability and resume the social life which ended so abruptly in December, 1991.

But I shouldn’t hold my breath. Last week, the Office for National Statistics’ report on social trends said that six in 10 men and four in 10 women aged 20-24 were still living with their parents.

Some had never left home in the first place, others, known as the “Boomerang Kids”, returned after crippling student debts, failed love affairs or unemployment forced them to move back in with their parents.

According to government figures, the proportion of men in their 20s living in the parental home has grown from 59% to 80% in the past 15 years.

Over the same period, the median age of first marriage has risen from 26 to 30 years for men and from 24 to 28 years for women. One obvious lure for the fledglings in returning to the nest is the prospect of home cooking, central heating and fresh laundry.

I don’t think that will be a problem for my sons.

They both abhor my frenetic cleaning and insistence on carrying a drum of Vim everywhere in my handbag. They tell me I’m not like other mums. I can’t believe this.

They think I’m a freak because I won’t venture out into a wine bar unless it’s got Cilit Bang on draft.

On the other hand, I’m also known as “Slummy Mummy” because sometimes their rate of depositing items into the laundry basket slightly overtakes my turn-around speed of putting the garments back washed, ironed and folded in their rooms.

My younger son recently complained of the lack of clean underpants. “Wear some of your brother’s,” he was told. “I’d rather go commando,” he replied.

On hearing my footsteps thundering up the stairs, he donned a pair of, er, largish boxer shorts.

“I feel like Bridget Jones did in her big knickers,” he wailed.

I’ll remind them of this episode when they want to return in their 20s and start treating the place like a hotel.

I’ll tell them they’ll get much better room service in their student hostel.

And I’ll remind them that they don’t have squatters’ rights.