My Version of Home...

"The Editor" so eloquently described what home is…my version is slightly different, slightly skewed because I am influenced by my husband’s version, and though one of my children never stops talking, and the other one is not yet quite that verbal, I am still influenced by what their version of home is. So here we go:

Home is where you can double dip without anyone being grossed out.

Home is where you can take your socks off at the end of the day and leave them on the couch.

Home is where bed-head doesn’t even warrant a second look.

Home is where you can leave your dirty dishes in the sink for three days straight, knowing someone will rinse them off and put them in the dishwasher for you.

Home is where you can finger paint in the dust on the coffee table.

Home is where you can laugh so hard that whatever you are drinking comes out of your nose.

Home is where piles of laundry are invisible to all but the launderer—unless, of course, they can be turned into a game.

Home is where clean laundry sits in a basket in the laundry room for weeks on end, with items being removed to wear, but the basket never gets put away.

Home is where you can take bites of cookies and put them back in the jar.

Home is where you can lick the frosting off of doughnuts and put them back in the box for someone else to finish off.

Home is where it’s cute to burp or stick your finger in your nose.

Home is where you can find a plastic Dora figure in the refrigerator, cookies in a DVD case, crayons in a lunch box, and Barbies in a briefcase.

Home is where scribbles are celebrated, bodily functions applauded, milestones met.

At home you don’t get any awards for doing a job well. You don’t get merit increases in pay—in fact, you don’t get any pay at all. You don’t get applauded when you cook a great meal, accomplish everything on your to-do list, or have the cleanest house on the block. You might get a hug or a thank you or praise from your family, but no trophies or certificates or prize money. But, if you are lucky, you might get something like this:

“Mommy, where did Marlo come from?” asked Zoe. Daddy said, “From Mommy’s tummy, just like you.” Mommy said, “You used to be little angels in heaven, but He sent you to us to love.” Zoe said, “Did you get to choose us?” Mommy replied, “Nope—God just chose you for us. Didn’t He do a good job?” Zoe said, “Yep, He sure did. He picked the perfect Mommy and Daddy for us to have.”

Now that’s priceless. There’s no place like home.

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.