going home

The other night ONE and I got in the car and headed to my parents’ house for the weekend.

I was so excited.

The car was packed early in the day. She was bathed, pajama-ed and pumped for the TV-in-the-car treat before my husband got home from work. I checked the front of the house for him several times between 6 and 7, just in case he returned early.

My stomach jumped with butterflies.

I love going home.

Even when I was a kid and disappointed at the end of a sleepover, I always secretly loved where I went home to. When I got older and my mom would banish me to my room after a fight, I liked it enough to never really consider my threats of running away.

And when I was in college, I always looked forward to the initial sweep-through upon my return. The hugs and smiles when I entered the house, the smell of hot glue and potpourri, detecting any small change to the decor and digging through a fridge that was newly packed in celebration of my arrival.

Mmmmmm. Home.

Home was Jersey.

And then I moved to Virginia with my husband. I was miserable. I mean, I was happy to be with him, but that was it. Everything else sucked. So I did the only thing that made sense.

Planned a trip home.

And even during my messy teen years, when I spent little time at my parents’ house, I was always rooted there. Especially when it counted.

One night I was tripping at my (then) boyfriend’s house. I took one hit, he took three.  And then his trip went bad. He thought I was an angel. An angel who was melting, sprouting wings and refused to take him to church. He became convinced that I was trying to kill him.  He started breaking things.

I ran from his house. I stood in the freezing autumn rain in my socks, sweats and a t-shirt and looked up in the sky. I thought I saw angles streaming out of the clouds. I had no idea where I was or what was happening, but I knew that God was real and home was real. And that I needed to get home.

I made it to my house around one in the morning. I rang the bell because I couldn’t figure out how to open the door. My mom, who had never even smoked pot, answered. I told her that I was tripping and was scared and wanted to come in. But she had to say that it was alright first.

Which, of course, she did.

She took me right in and spent the rest of the morning talking me down. Singing the childhood hymns I requested. Holding my hands. Praying. She kept me from falling off the edge into the bad zone.

And then never said a thing about it.

My mom later told me that the only reason she could sleep after that was because she knew that I knew that I could always come home.

And she believed that I would.

And that gave her peace.

And I later told her how that morning marked the start of many changes for me. Beginning with acid. Which I never did again.

Because being at home with her on that night gave me peace. Which I guess I’d been searching for.

And found at home.

As an adult I think about home a lot and how important it is. Not just the house, or the people, but the idea of it. The heart of it that seeps into the mind. I’ve lived in Virginia long enough now to consider it home. My husband and I have established roots and memories and girls and a place.

But every time I get on 95 and head North, I’m heading home. And by the time I hit the Turnpike, I’m giddy and refreshed and no longer tired of driving.

I want my home to be a place where my girls feel safe. Where they know that no matter what they do, they can always come back.

When they grow up and move away, I hope that the first sign for 66 Towards Washington gives them butterflies.

And when they walk through the door, inspect the changes and poke around in the fridge, I hope that home makes them want to do a Christmas Eve dance.

Because it feels that good to be back.