I'm 38 years old. I am the mother of two children. Yet, when I drop my parents off at the airport for their departure flight after visiting with us, I cry like a baby.
Twenty years ago (can't even believe I am old enough to use that phrase), you couldn't have paid me to want to live with my parents. And although actually living under the same room with them for an extended period might be give me pause, it couldn't hurt to have them just a tad closer than 1035 miles.
And I'm not just saying this because my mom cooked elaborate, delicious meals for us or because my dad happily occupied a certain male preschooler, although neither of those things hurts the cause.