We're driving to Texas in a few days. It's March, so it's a little early for bluebonnets, but I'm still hopeful.
I'm terribly predictable, y'all. Point me toward Texas and I'll start writing poetry and posting achy songs about home. I'll say something about how time moves on and everyone changes and home will never be the same, ever again. Then I will drown my sorrows in Mexican Coke (the drink, haters) and queso until it's time to go to my other home that is not home again.
I'll pontificate on the beauty of the state, of the people, of the curious thing that is Texas pride. I'll talk about lasting friendships and family and the ache of belonging but not belonging.
I miss living in Texas, I miss being with family. At the same time, I am content here in this wonky house in this Midwestern city, with these crazy little babies.
I was the one in grade school who couldn't stay the night at the sleepover without breaking down from homesickness and calling my dad to come get me. Shoot, I probably did that in high school. One time, though, when I was 16, there was a flood and I was at the MOG's house and I called my dad and left a message that I'd just sleep over at Richy's mom's, because of the flood, you know. On the couch. Next thing I knew my dad was there, soaked to the skin but determined to rescue me from one last slumber party.
Anyway, if you would have asked me at any point in my life if I would be okay with living outside of Conroe, much less Texas, I would have said an emphatic Aw Heck No. But God moved us here and there's been so much grace. I don't feel like I'm fully myself, though. The part of me that is used to being a Yablonski, in the middle of the drama, is lacking. Although there's no shortage of drama around here...
just rambling here, trying to type and think while simultaneously vigorously patting a baby bottom, kissing bonked heads and trying to talk certain people into taking me to lunch.
The thing is, my little family is my home now, and that's good.