Homestead happenings: home!
After almost 3 weeks away we’ve returned home.
Even though we left beloved family, snowfree playgrounds and Iranian bakeries, I always love coming home. It’s like falling into the arms of an old friend, even if that friend’s beard is all crusted up with ice.
And as much as it’s fun to be a tourist, to walk around goggled-eyed and gawking, as we did, I love being a local.
I love knowing where to get grapefruit seed extract and oregano oil at 8pm when my tonsils are so inflamed I just want to spit them out and be done with them (the strep came back). I love running into people I know everywhere. Sometimes it feels a little Mr. Rogers Neighborhood around here. I mean really, Frankie, two doors down is the checker at my supermarket, Jane around the corner cuts my hair, and Cody, next door, brews my beer at the local brewery. Because the brewer’s a person in your neighborhood.
I love that pick-ups and drop-offs at Col’s school are like Old Home Week with gabbing parents clogging up the bin room. I love our sweet hometown newspaper, in which the same handful of people have been feuding over homosexuality and abortion in the Letters to the Editor for the past ten years. (My friend David once said, “couldn’t they just get each others’ phone numbers and talk it out on their own time?”) Dan came home from his first day back at work today and said “I love driving around Southwest Colorado! I saw hundreds of deer and elk today!” I love that too.
Of course, there are adjustments to be made. Like getting back to work. Or resetting my mental thermometer to include the possibility of 24F (as a high). Also, returning to the passing-of-the-baton family lifestyle, where instead of being together all the time with nothing much to do, we’ve got schedules and deadlines and the kids get shifted back and forth between us so each parent has a shred of personal time, or personal work time, as it often goes for me. The kids loved having Dan around, especially when he leapt into a room like a kung-fu master, screaming “hiii ya!” and slicing at the air dramatically. “Chop me up Daddy, chop me up!” Rosie would screech.
Time with Daddy usually ends up like this:
Tonight, at the dinner table, Rose shouted to Dan: “bite my butt Daddy!” Which seemed perfectly normal at the time, though I can’t remember now how that fit into the whole sitting down and eating of quesadillas together. Something about Dan’s presence, I think. When our friend Sue drove us home from the airport yesterday, a little kung fu hysteria started brewing in the backseat, and Sue wondered as the kids cackled with laughter, “would it ever occur to you to hop in the backseat with your kids and start chopping them up?” It’s the division of labor. I nurture, he karate-chops.
We’re all slowly getting back into our home groove. Rose has been sifting through piles of Christmas gum and bandaids, distributing them across various purses.
Col had a playdate with his dear friend Mathew, in which they played together joyfully for hours while saying very few words. “That’s just how it is when I’m hunting with a buddy.” Dan mentioned, understandingly.
We’ve already been to the library for a new stack of books, which the kids have been reading aloud in this very Jewish bar mitzvah chanting type way, which kills me with cuteness. “And-den-she-says-please-waaaaaait.”
It is lovely to be home.
*Thank you for the heartfelt birthday wishes for Col, they filled my heart with joy.
*I am offering a new writing class, details here. (sorry, nothing online at this point).
*Oh, and welcome and gratitude to all the new e-mail subscribers to 6512 and growing!