OCD AND THE GENERATION CHALLENGE

(Another chapter in the continuing saga of living with OCD.)

A year ago, our 18-year-old grandson came to us with an announcement that nearly gave us matching heart palpitations.

“I want to spend my final year of high school living with you.”

After the shock and awe wore off, our first question was the obvious one.

Why?

His high school was only ten minutes from our condo, while his parents had moved to Milton. He wanted to finish school without spending half his life on the highway. Sounded logical enough. He also assured us that as soon as he graduated, he would apply to university, move out and begin his independent life.

Note: My husband, who firmly believes he possesses ESP (Extra Senior Perception), looked at me and said, “Trust me. He’s not moving out. We’ll eventually be taking care of his wife, children and probably the family dog.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Please stop making these predictions. I’d like to enjoy my retirement in peace and quiet.”

He simply smiled.

“You wait and see.”

I hate it when he’s right.

We were thrilled, of course, but also a little apprehensive. We are retired seniors happily enjoying what everyone calls “the golden years.” Nobody mentioned that those golden years might include supervising teenage rugby players.

Like every responsible grandmother, I sat him down for The Talk.

Not that talk.

The Living-With-Grandparents talk.

I explained the house rules. The most important one?

“Your grandfather—whom you call Baba—is OCD. He believes in ‘a place for everything and everything in its place.'”

My grandson nodded earnestly.

“I’ll follow every rule.”

Bless his optimistic teenage heart.

As we all know, saying something and actually doing it belong to two completely different generations.

Naturally, we couldn’t say no. So, he arrived with bags, suitcases, gym equipment, protein powder, enough shoes to open a sporting goods store, and somehow… more bags.

Our cozy two-bedroom condo instantly became Grand Central Station.

Then reality arrived.

We had forgotten what it was like to live with teenagers. It’s been decades since our own sons traumatized the cat and OCD’s carefully placed furniture.

Our grandson is almost six feet tall, captain of his football team, an accomplished young chef and a dedicated gym fanatic.

When he walks through the condo, the floor vibrates.

When he closes a cupboard, neighbouring buildings probably register seismic activity.

His version of “being gentle” sounds like someone dropping a piano from the third floor.

Every day I gently remind him:

“Please close the cupboards softly.”

He does.

BANG!

That’s his soft.

Living in a condo filled with Baba’s treasured collections doesn’t help. There are decorative plates, antique ashtrays, crystal bowls and fragile objects amassed over four decades of travel, whose purpose nobody remembers anymore.

A few items sacrificed themselves in the name of youth before our grandson finally understood that Baba’s blood pressure rises in direct proportion to broken collectibles.

Life has changed in beautiful—and noisy—ways.

While counting our blessings, I now spend a surprising amount of time calculating protein intake.

Protein has become my nemesis.

I dream about protein.

I buy protein.

I discuss protein.

I’m fairly certain my grocery store cashier believes we’re training for the Olympics.

The good news is that our grandson is an excellent cook, so I don’t have to feed him. In fact when I cook, its under great scrutiny just because he was on Season 2 of Junior chef (on Netflix now) but when he does like my food he says “its bussin”

The bad news?

After he’s finished cooking, the kitchen looks like Gordon Ramsay lost a wrestling match with a bull.

Only Baba can enter afterwards.

He doesn’t just clean the kitchen.

He conducts a crime scene investigation.

Just when we thought we’d established a routine, grandson number two—aged sixteen—decided his older brother was clearly living his best life.

He announced that he would also like to live with us.

Not permanently. Just four days a week.

Apparently, we’ve become an all-inclusive grandparents’ resort.

It’s amusing how my husband and I constantly tell each other,

“They’re old enough now. We really shouldn’t spoil them.”

Who are we kidding?

That’s like telling Niagara Falls to stop being wet.

Of course we spoil them.

Baba grumbles the loudest and spoils them the most. It’s one of life’s great contradictions. He complains while buying them their favourite snacks.

We are learning as we go.

This generation speaks an entirely different language.

The first time my grandson called me a GOAT, I was deeply offended.

I thought he’d finally noticed my age.

Seeing my horrified expression, he burst out laughing.

“Bebe! It’s a compliment! It means Greatest Of All Time.“

Who comes up with these terms?

Then I learned that something wonderful is “clutch.”

A house is a “crib.”

Friends are “my boys.”

“Pog” apparently means something is really good.

Honestly, whatever happened to Oxford English?

Then there is the real meaning of the word “Super-size” – cereal is not eaten in regular bowls but in large serving bowls, chocolate milk and milk (with protein) is consumed in the largest jug that can be found (I finally had to hide these)

The older grandson did apply to several universities—mostly, I suspect, to reassure us that adulthood was somewhere on the horizon.

He was accepted into a number of them.

Then he calmly announced that he’d be attending a local college.

Because…

…he could continue living with us.

I looked at my husband.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

I quietly doubled my daily vitamins. I also understood how countries feel with Trump’s tariffs!

The truth is, despite the noise, the broken collectibles, the protein obsession, the mountain of laundry, and a grocery bill that now resembles the national debt, I wouldn’t change a thing.

My heart melts every time they say,

“Bebe… can we go home now?”

Home.

Not their parents’ house.

Ours.

Home is where there is love.

Home is where there is laughter.

Home is where there are arguments over whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher.

Home is where the fridge is mysteriously empty twenty-four hours after grocery shopping.

And home is where two old grandparents are learning that retirement doesn’t necessarily mean slowing down.

Sometimes it simply means starting a whole new adventure.

Our sons now complain that they were never spoiled this much.

They’re probably right.

But then again, grandchildren are God’s reward for surviving your own children.

And as for Baba’s OCD?

Let’s just say it has become an endurance sport.