I'm starting to have a hard time with saying "going home" when I mean "going to the States" and it seems to bother Anders as well when I say it, so I'm consciously trying to stop. THIS is home. Sweden is home. It's not as if when we go to the States, we go to a place where we've even lived, since we go to my mom's house in Michigan (where I've never lived) and rarely even make it to Chicago, and it's been seven years and you'd think I'd be over this already. Is home where my mom is? Is home where I was born? Where I came from before I moved here? Or is it where my husband and house and children and life are? The latter, is my answer...but when referring to any vacation in the U.S. of A., my brain automatically translates it as "going home for the summer/Christmas/random holiday."
You'd think I would have figured this out by now, after a lifetime of moving around, but it's still just as confusing and weird to deal with it as it was when I was a teenager. Military brats always have a hard time answering the question, "So, where are you from?" I still mix up the definition of my family, even, as sometimes it means Anders/Martin/Karin and sometimes it means my FIRST family: Mom/Dad/Sarah/John. Is there ever a time when you finally make that mental switch?
This morning, Martin and I mixed it up properly. I had to get up a bit early and get the kids up and feed them breakfast, which all went off without a hitch, but then I got their clothes out and set them in the living room and told them they could watch TV while they got dressed, as long as they were done by the time I got out of the shower. 10 minutes later, Martin had only made it as far as his underwear, because he apparently didn't inherit the multi-tasking gene from me, or else he was caught in the slo-mo undertow, and anyway, he pitched a fit and fell in it when I turned off the TV because OBVIOUSLY he couldn't finish getting dressed on time if it was on. I was dumma mamma** several times, and he even threw something and hit out, until I threatened to remove TV privileges for tonight too, and then the dumma mammas were all internalized and the only outward sign was the laser eyes of 6-year-old deprivation and anger leveled at me over the toothbrush. The only reason that this is at all post-worthy is because the child in question was Martin.
courtesy Posts a Hilarious (but sadly, not real) Reply From the Smithsonian Regarding a Submission: Australopithecus spiff-arino
And You the Judges, Bear a Wary Eye: Alternative Ending for Hamlet Recently Discovered (thanks for the laugh, pegkerr!)
Good Writing Out There Right Now:
- The Life of a Rabbit (It can be a small thing that grabs your attention the most.)
- What Love Looks Like from Witt and Wisdom