A Place Called Home

With the Olympics over (what do I watch on TV now?), the Engineer off to grad school in the Big Apple, and all my friends back at work, the Rainy City felt a wee bit lonely.

I decided to bundle the boys into my Volkswagen and head for the hills (ie.  the Rockies) and go home.  Odd isn't it, that although spending 8 years in the Rainy City, I still call my parent's house home?  The house they live in now isn't even near where I grew up!  They just moved into Cowtown from a small farming community so this house is literally brand new to the family.  And yet it is home.

That is nice, for my mum.  But will my home ever be home?  I suppose when I get married and have kids of my own, the home that I build for them will be home.  Meh, it will be home for them.  I think your parent's house will always be home.  

Comforting thought, for some, anyways. Maybe the idea of spending more than one night under your mother's roof is too much.   I know that for most, spending the night under your mother-in-law's roof is definitely too much.

I always revert to being a child when I am at home.  It's ridiculous.  At my own house, I make my bed, put my tea cups in the dishwasher, sweep my floors.  Here? Nope.  I also cook my dinner and clean up after it.  Here?  Nope.  I let my dad bustle around in the kitchen last night and ate the mussels, then went back to the couch.  I sleep in.  I don't shower until noon.  Lazy bones.

It's nice though, to always have a home to come back to.  Even when you are in your sixties with kids of your own who are grown. Or maybe my mum just did a good job.

I am going to make a lasagna to show my appreciation.  I wonder where the pan is . . . .