Home

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. 
She sits next to my childhood bed, and is as perky as she was in 1979. 
(If you’re a Whoopsie aficionado like me, enjoy this walk down memory lane.)

  • 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). 
The best part of being home, of course, is being with my Mom. She’s great, and I love her so much. 
Mom, watching the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain, 2002
(Nope, she didn’t run with the bulls, but she wanted to!)
A little girl, when asked where her home was, replied, “where mother is.” 
-Keith L. Brooks

One Response
  1. March 22, 2011