Home

They fly through the door at the end of the day, full of stories of new friends, faces and experiences.  Anxious to get it all out, they talk above and around one another in a blur of words.

For these days I am thankful. 

I've spent the last couple of months answering questions. Reassuring little hearts. Trying to create home in the midst of this change.  Living in our temporarily smaller house, mattresses on floors, clothes in strange places, piled high in some cases.  Where do I put all of these towels?  How come you have so many pairs of jeans?  The odd thing is that it feels more like home in this cramped condition than it did when we fit better in this place.  

And that's when it hit me.

This place has nothing to do with home.  This physical address is a place to store our winter clothes, toys, books, appliances, too many shoes, furniture.  Everything.  A storage unit.  I've put a lot of hope in this structure, pleading that it would comply and make this feel like home.  Like ours.  Like us.

Not only this but I had somehow convinced myself that I wasn't the same anymore.  That a change of address had forever altered my character and identity.  How could I reassure little hearts if mine was so uncertain?  And I stumbled through crying sessions with Abby, holding onto her while she let it all out.  My tears falling as a confession of my own heart.

But I feel like I am finding me again. 

I'm feeling at home again.