It’s kind of weird being Home

Like, good weird—but weird.

I’m resolved not to complain that there aren’t enough pillows on my bed for me to sleep comfortably. Or that the outlet by my bed is too far away for me to plug my phone in and watch netflix at the same time. Or that it’s really freaking cold in here. What’s that going to do but make my parents feel bad?

I’ve gotten used to the rhythms and noises of the house I share with my roommates and their one-year-old. (I refuse to be the kind of person who mentions my fourteen-month-old nephew or my thirteen-month-old niece. That, should they feel so moved, is definitely a parent thing.) There’s always a huge buzz of activity early in the morning while Nephew is up and figuring out how spoons work during breakfast—it’s actually pretty hilarious when you’re not the one who has to clean up after the fact.

It’s 11:40 and my parents’ house is dead quiet; my mother is at work, but since my dad and brother are still here somebody should have cracked a door open by now, right? This coming from the person who lolled around til almost 10:00 and only really got up because my stomach very loudly pointed out that I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. But it turns out my parents only have dairy milk, so getting up and dressed was ultimately pointless. Plus they’ve rearranged the kitchen several times, so I don’t know where the spoons are and all the potential drawers are super noisy. (One does not make too much noise at Home—even typing on my laptop’s probably too much—and risk waking the grumbly grumpy dad who’s tired from manual labor that he really shouldn’t be doing in the first place.)

I think it’s finally hitting me that while I’ll always be welcome here, it’s not really My Place any more. It’s a little bittersweet.

Also I had to kill a really big spider this morning. Because no one else was up to tell me if it was a dangerous kind and fuck if I was looking away from that thing long enough to google.

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