So, why is it that I own my own house, but still refer to my Mom’s house as home?
I kind of like it, that coming home concept. This idea that there’s this place where everything is cozy, warm, yummy, and just full of love. I hope my kids view our house like that. For now, my Mom’s house is home and that’s where I am.
My Mom’s not feeling 100% (we’ll talk about that another time), so we all came down, rather unexpectedly, on Thursday night. I stayed behind when the family left yesterday, so I could help out my Mom. It’s so strange! I can’t remember the last time I was home without Rob or the kids. It feels decadent.
I have all of these funny ways that I know I am at my Mom’s:
- My clothes, mysteriously, are washed within 30 minutes of being removed from my body. I have no idea where the little laundry elves live, but when I find them, they are coming back to Massachusetts with me.
- I am writing this blog as I finish my second glass of white wine. Wahoo! I never do that at home.
- When we arrived, my Mom’s famous coffee cake, which we affectionately call the “J” Cake, was on the counter. This is the only item for which I have absolutely no willpower. I wish I could show you what it looked like, but it’s gone. It wasn’t all me. But, suffice it say, I went over my Weight Watchers points for the next six months.
- I spend a lot of time thinking about Whoopsie, my favorite doll from childhood.
- I slept 9 hours last night. Uninterrupted. Aaaaaammmmmmaaaaazzzzzzzinnnngggggggg.
- I have watched hours of HGTV and the Food Network. Let me tell you what I’ve learned: houses are cheaper in Texas, people are obsessed with master bathrooms, and cake competition shows are boring (sorry Mom).