The sweetness of coming home

Don’t forget to hug them while I’m gone, I said two days earlier.

I pulled in the driveway and hustled my things together in the front seat. The shoes I’d kicked off in favor of driving barefoot. The earbuds that provided me two insatiable hours of audiobook fun. My phone, a half-drunk bottle of Coca-Cola, my purse, my wallet, an empty bag of Sun Chips.

I grabbed my suitcase from the backseat and glided to the front door. I was already in quiet mode from the drive home and knocked very gently three or four times when I discovered the front door was locked. I couldn’t wait to give my oldest a hug. My arms had been empty for two whole days. The sadness of that felt refreshing.

No one heard my knock. Typical, I thought.

I started to sigh but stopped myself. I’d been away for more than 48 hours and I wasn’t going to adopt annoyed-mother status even before it all began. Grabbing my bag and stepping off the front stoop, I walked around the side of the house and in through the back gate. The tent, I noticed, had been moved and cleaned out. It left a small patch of browning grass behind. A crib mattress and a sleeping bag were drying under the heat of the sun.

I swung the back door open quickly to avoid that incessant squeak it gives when you treat it too kindly. Before I was even in his sight, there it was: “Hi, Mama.” A quick kiss and a long hug and then my bladder called me away. 1 hour waiting in an airport. 1 hour sitting on a plane. 30 minutes conspiring where to put a sticker while heading to my car. Nearly 3 hours driving home. I had to pee. So I cut him off. “Hold on, babe, I really have to use the bathroom.”

I flushed and washed and brushed my teeth. As I nudged the door open with a toe and wiped my hands on my jeans, I saw him leaning against the back door, waiting for me. Like if he didn’t keep an eye on the door I might slip out of the house again.

“Daddy’s playing Fleetwood Mac.” Oh? Nice.

“The World Cup final starts in 30 minutes.” I know. Who do you think will win?

I patted the dog with one hand and pulled my too-big 7-year-old into me with the other and we all rounded the corner to the living room. Stevie Nicks flooded my ears with “You Make Loving Fun” and as I wove in-between piles of laundry in and out of baskets on the carpet, Jamis followed. Dan was tipped back in the brown leather recliner. Laptop on, lemonade by his side, lyrics seamlessly dropping from his lips. You sure do, I thought.

There were no adventures while I was gone. It rained and the boys stayed home. The tent was closed off for a couple of nights. They watched too much Star Wars. Had dance hour a few times. Ate Daddy’s famous egg n’ cheese sandwiches. Life went on without me. As I expected it to, and knew that it would.

Getting away from it all is a gift. But nothing can replace the life I have when I’m at home surrounded by crushed up Apple Jacks on the couch cushions, soggy diapers, and rounds of open-mouthed kisses interspersed with head-butting. What a life this is. Messy and loud and mine.