These last two weekends, I have gone into "holy shit we're moving away so I need to do all the things" mode. First, I took a solo trip to Boston to spend the night with my brother and sister in law, and second, a trip to New Hampshire to spend some time alone with my dad (a.k.a The Dadster). Both trips were refreshing in their own way, especially when you have two kids and three dogs at home; it was a rare treat to only have myself to take care of for the first time since becoming a mother. No emergency snacks to pack for the endlessly hungry Hannah, no cringe-worthy body talks with Lyla, no massive dog crates to pack up or #2's to clean up - just me, the music I chose for the drive, the snacks I didn't have to share, and the uninterrupted conversations that actually got completed. It was time cherished, especially with those views from the mountain top, but as much as I enjoyed the rare alone time, I couldn't wait to get back to my family, which I realized was the best part about getting away.
It was easy to go to bed alone, without any bedtime routines or dogs to let out, but I didn't prefer it. I missed how many things the girls would rattle off as I tucked them in, as if we would never speak again. I missed climbing into bed with my husband, taking forever to decide which show to put on, only for us to fall asleep within minutes. I missed warm cheek kisses in the morning and smoothing out little bed heads. I missed the kiss I get on the shoulder before sunrise when my husband gets out of bed before me. I missed it all, which actually made me feel really good. I could recognize how different and often easier things could be without a marriage to nurture or children to raise, and yet I'd take the difficulties of daily life over not having that life any day.
In a way, I was relieved to feel that I truly loved my life; that I didn't regret having children or getting married young once I got a taste of freedom for the first time in 10 years. There was a part of me that feared different feelings once I could step away and take a deep breath, that I would wish to be able to do things like that more, that I would envy a different life, but no freaking way. My husband and I missed each other as if we were newly dating and counting down the hours until we could kiss again. My kiddos would FaceTime each day and text throughout to keep me updated on their activities and "miss you" moments. I believe part of what made my time away so great what knowing what I had to come home to.
So, I guess the whole point of this post was to surrender to a cliche: home is not where your house is, but where your heart is. I thought I would feel waves of depression coming home to Massachusetts when we thought we would be settled in North Carolina by now, when really, the location didn't matter because it's where my family was waiting for me. Through the frustrations of recent renovations, the struggle to sell our house, the inability to plan, and, really, a lack of control, coming home showed me that we can wade through the moving bullshit and still be happy now. There was nothing like those big hugs and wet kisses I got when I pulled up to the curb, or that one of a kind hug that's tailored just for me, making me feel so safe and loved - I will have that wherever we are, and that's what coming home is.
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