I’m a control freak and a parent of four adults, who live with me. Something’s got to give … | Life and style

I’m a control freak and a parent of four adults, who live with me. Something’s got to give … | Life and style

The chaos of having premature twins changed me overnight from laidback dreamer to control freak. Bringing two tiny babies home, I immediately tipped the cats off the breadboard and got out the bleach. I wanted my house ringing with cleanliness. I couldn’t cope with loud noises â€" I talked in a whisper and turned off the TV. I fell apart if my newly established routine was disrupted. Things had to happen at the right time, and I had to be in charge. I tried getting a live-in au pair, but I couldn’t cope with anyone else looking after my children. I knew it was an extreme reaction to screaming babies and sleepless nights. I thought it would pass. Then I had two more children. It didn’t pass. Now I am living with four young adults. Control isn’t possible. But still I struggle for it.

I used to decide how they were dressed and when to cut their hair. Now I never know what I’m going to find tattooed, pierced or shaved on to their person. I come home after shopping to find Zac in the kitchen, and his brother with a pair of electric clippers. Jake has given himself a mohican. Zac is standing in a circle of hair. What remains on his head hardly covers his scalp. I take several deep breaths. I’m not sure what’s worse: the state of the boys’ heads or the state of the floor. At least hair grows, I console myself, as I point them to the vacuum cleaner.

I’d like to have the same command of my unruly household as I do of the dogs, who come galloping if I call

Lily appears with flowers tattooed on her wrists and hands. I gasp. She didn’t even consult me. The design is exquisite; I’m not arguing with that. But it’s permanent, and it will always be on show, unless she’s wearing gloves. Jake plays the same trick, casually revealing another inked design on his leg, which he assures me will “balance out” the first one.

It would save a lot of stress if I could just relinquish the need for control. But they still live at home, theoretically under my jurisdiction, and that’s the problem. The other day, calling the kids for supper, I accidently whistled for them. A Freudian mistake. I would like to have the same command of my unruly household as I do of the dogs, who come galloping if I call them, eat what I give them, and wait for me to tell them when it’s time to go out.

Gone are the days when my offspring toddled behind me, holding my hands to cross roads. Now, I have to pester them for information about where they’re going and when they’re coming back. Usually, the most I’ll be told is that they’re going “out”. Or, “out, out”. The single means, back before 12pm. Double means probably home before breakfast. “Don’t worry,” they say airily.

But I do. If they didn’t live with me, I’d be in blissful ignorance. I don’t know who they’ll be coming home with either. I’m not expecting to be consulted about their relationships. But I can’t help being aware of their choice of partner when their girlfriend or boyfriend is sitting in my kitchen at breakfast, or standing in my bathroom cleaning their teeth.

“Where’s Emily?” I hiss at Jake, when a new girl turns up for a bowl of cornflakes on a Sunday morning.

“It ended, Mum.”

“You mean she ended things with you?”

“No. It wasn’t quite right. We didn’t have the same taste in music.”

I go from feeling protective to feeling frustrated. Emily is a lovely, intelligent, talented girl. I had begun to wonder if she might have been someone he would get serious with. I approved of this particular choice. “You can’t have everything in one person.” I tell him. “She seemed pretty perfect to me.”

“Stop interfering.”

“I can’t help it!”

“It’s over. Move on.”

I muster a parting shot. “Just as well you didn’t have her name inscribed on your arm.”

He rubs his sleeve thoughtfully. “Ah, about that …”

He’s kidding. I know he’s kidding. But the fact is, I couldn’t prevent him tattooing the names of a dozen girls on his forehead if he wanted â€" never mind his arm.

As I stare at my grown-up son, I can feel the parenting steering wheel slipping through my fingers, my feet jamming down on non-existent pedals. I’ve lost control. The funny thing is, it feels like a relief.

Some names have been changed

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