One Household, Two Kitchens, Three Generations
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I discovered by chance that the key to modern life is the age-old tradition of multi-generational living.
“You’re a saint!” my friend Suzie exclaims when I tell her that my mother has moved in with us. I smile, taking the compliment even though I know I don’t deserve it. What Suzie doesn’t know is that having my mom live with us is one of the most selfish things I’ve ever done.
It’s been nearly six months since my step-father died and my mother moved from her apartment in Toronto to our house in Montreal. In that time, my life has transformed. Before my mother moved in, I could never keep up with the demands of modern day life. With work, family, my writing and my efforts to stay healthy, my TO DO list was neverending. The hours of my day filled up quickly, leaving little time for many household chores. I used to fantasize about having a personal assistant. With an in-house mother, I have one de facto.
Now, my socks are always darned. My bed sheets are ironed. If I’m ever too tired or busy to make dinner, my mother is eager to cook for the family. I no longer have to worry about sticking around at home for a delivery or visit by a repairman. My mom is almost always home. And when I’m not home during the day, I don’t have to fret about our puppy who is not yet potty-trained. My mother brings him into the backyard where she sits under the shade and reads her novels.
The greatest advantage, however, is the relationship between my kids and mother — a.k.a. “Nonna”. I come from a typical immigrant family: my mother had little education and a huge work ethic that enabled her children to go to university. My generation used that education to obtain a financial security that my kids now take for granted. Although I obtained a working class identity by growing up in the Italian community and seeing my mother work three jobs, my children are too far removed to feel any affinity to their ancestors who toiled for every cent. That is, until Nonna moved in. She brings with her not only her fine pasta-making skills, but also her ethnic and class identity. They roll their eyes when Nonna starts talking about the privations of war and migration, but I know from personal experience that those stories are sinking into some part of their brain from where they will emerge once adolescence is good and done.
The arrangement is also good for my mother. When she arrived, she was physically and emotionally exhausted. Her doctor worried about her Type 2 Diabetes. Today, however, she has a new lease on life. The smile I remember she always had before my step-father’s illness has returned. She’s also reading voraciously — something she’s always loved but never had the time to do. Living in a lively household with two teenagers, their pets and friends coming in and out suits my very sociable mother. Seeing this has convinced me that our society must return to multi-generational living for everyone’s sake.
The key to the household harmony is separate spaces. Not only does my mother have her own bathroom and TV den, but she also has her own kitchen. This is no accident. When we did repairs on our basement many years ago, we put in a small kitchen in the hopes that my mom would eventually move in. I knew that she would never even entertain the idea unless she knew she could do so with her own pots and pans. Two kitchens seem like a luxury, but it has been essential. The few thousand dollars it cost us to put in some Ikea cabinets, buy a second hand fridge and stove, and hook up the plumbing in a corner of our basement was well worth the investment. My mother doesn’t lay a hand on my kitchen and I don’t lay one on hers. Her kitchen can be as messy as she likes. I can keep mine as tidy and organized as I like. She can prep spaghetti sauce in her kitchen while I have a zoom meeting in mine.
Some readers may think they could never live with their mother, that they don’t have the kind of relationship that can tolerate such closeness. Actually, if my mom and I can make it work, most people could make it work. To say that my mother and I are very different is an understatement. We have different likes and dislikes, and very different politics. We also have different personal cultures. The consequence of the immigrant experience is that there are cultural differences between the generation that immigrated and the one that grew up in the new country. These conflicts don’t disappear. Conflict, however, is different than disharmony, and that too is an important lesson for my kids. Despite our differences, my mother is a permanent part of my life — and now my home.
