Home

The kids and I are in Houston. We drove over yesterday, jogging stroller, bright orange bike (with lime green shark/dinosaur helmet), and pink blankie in tow, and we're staying with my parents until Tuesday. I'm taking this whole week off work. James was supposed to be with us, but then he found out the week of Thanksgiving is one of his group's craziest weeks, so he and the dogs are holding down the fort in Austin (and missing us like crazy). I realized a few months ago that I hadn't spent much time in Houston this year, and when I had, it was always for some event or party, with much fun and little down time. Now that we're only 3 hours away from my parents, we're both terrible about taking real time to see each other. We get more frequent visits, but they're much shorter, so we planned this trip for the days before Thanksgiving to just relax and enjoy the family and the neighborhood. At 29 hours long and counting, this is now my longest trip home this year and it's been everything I'd hoped it would be.

I'm always surprised at how nice it feels to come home- how familiar and warm. We've lived in this house since I was 5. Our hand prints are set in cement in the driveway- then a young family of 4, recently arrived from Los Angeles, and awaiting the birth of baby #3. There's so many memories here- my new baby brother coming home from the hospital, packing for camping trips with the trailer in the driveway, waking up at the crack of dawn for swim meets- finding the cereal bowls my mom had set out the night before and listening to Queen and other "pump up" music on the stereo. Elementary school, middle school, high school- I loved every single year I lived here; it would be impossible to pick a favorite. My best friend lived across the street and every other friend lived less than 5 minutes away by bike or rollerblade. I learned how to drive on our circle. I got ready for my first middle school dance, my senior prom, and my wedding in the upstairs bathroom that all 3 of us had to share. I remember when I brought James home for the first time from college. It was October of my freshman year and he'd brought a bottle of wine for my parents that neither of us could legally buy. We pulled up in the driveway and honked the horn and I had this vision and thought, one day we're going to do this with our kids. Later that night, after he'd snuck into my room from the game room where he was supposed to be sleeping on the pull-out couch, he said, "you're going to think this is weird, but when we pulled up in the driveway today... I could see us doing that with our future kids in the backseat." We'd been dating for 6 weeks. Eight years later we pulled into my parents' driveway, in that same green 4-Runner, with a one-year-old Landon in the back. We opened our wedding presents on the ping pong table on the back porch. After our wedding reception, we didn't want to say goodbye to our friends just yet, so we came back to my parents' house, tapped a keg on the back porch and partied till 3 a.m. Two days later, when it was time for James and I to drive up to Chicago so I could start law school and our new life together, we waved, all smiles, and pulled out of the driveway to start our long drive. I was sobbing before we got 10 houses down the road. James kicked the car in reverse and zipped back up my driveway so I could jump out of the car and give my parents one last hug in the kitchen (where I found them both crying).

So. Many. Memories.

I was thinking today that James and I seem to move about every 3 years, and I could see that pattern continuing. There's so many places I want to live- different parts of the country I want to explore and new cities I want to experience. I wonder where we'll eventually settle and where our kids will consider home. I wonder if there will be a house we live in for the 20+ years my parents have lived in this one. But then I think about something my dad said about 10 years ago. About how his parents' house, then in Florida- a house he never lived in growing up- was home, because they were there. And there was something about walking in the door of that familiar place and knowing, you're home, because mom and dad are there and for a few days, you're a "son" again, along with your usual daily roles of husband and dad.

And I think there's something to that- that there will still be a feeling of "home" - of comfort and warmth and security - wherever my parents live next, because they will be there. But then I think about how we took a walk this morning to my elementary school and I was able to show Landon the window of my Kindergarten class. And that part of me-- the part that loves telling Landon, as I tuck him in bed, that this is the room that mommy slept in when she was a little girl-- that part knows there's something special about the feeling of family combined with this physical place that simply can't be replicated. And I'm really glad I still get to come here, to come home.