Going Home

On my wedding day seven years ago,

at my first true home.

For those of you who know, I live nearby to where I grew up. I'm about 45 minutes from my childhood home, and my parents have lived there for about 30 years.

I had the opportunity to have some time without the kids this weekend, being spoiled by my parents. I'm blessed to have these days every now and then, and they usually occur when I'm on the verge of running away from my kids or selling them to the closest bidder. Going to my folks' is a mental vacation, always allowing for a full stomach from all the culinary delights and uninterrupted sleep.

I rode the train into my hometown and was immediately greeted by my parents, who quoted a Seinfeld episode right from the beginning. I had such a craving for fried onions, and there's no better place than Hackney's, so off we went.

The rest of the time with my parents was spent lounging, reading, watching tributes to Paul Newman, followed by a 10-hour sleep. It was heaven. On Sunday we went to the Flea Market at Allstate Arena where we found a few things we just couldn't live without. We hit one more delicious locale, and then I figured I should go home.

Home. That's a funny word. Because all during the time I was "home." I was in the house I grew up in. I was where I felt at ease. I was with my family. But I needed to go "home" to see my husband and kids. Could it be possible to have two homes?

As I pondered this aloud, my dad said he had the same feeling whenever my mom used to say she was going "home" to visit her parents. He would feel hurt, because, after all, isn't the house he lived with her considered "home?" So she changed it to say she was going to visit her folks'.

I don't think it bothers Phil that I think of both places as home. Whenever my parents do sell, I know their new house won't be considered home to me. But until then, I guess I'll just enjoy the fact that I have two homes full of loving family.

My home with my husband and kids,
minus the boat (it was the former homeowners).