Sweet Home Mama Jamma...
Tonight, I got to thinking (and no, it didn't really hurt that bad.)
This weekend my wife, stepson and I were going to go back to Detroit to visit my parents. Plans fell through, so now we're going next weekend. But it got me thinking, as we discussed the plans to go to my parents' house.
Not too long ago, when going back there, I referred to it as "going home" for the weekend. As a side effect of getting older, I realize now that it is "going to my parents' house."
They still live in the house I grew up in from the age of about two until about nineteen, when I went away to college. After that time, it was just my summer residence, but it was still - for the most part - "home."
After my third year at college, I stopped going home for the summers, and my habitation became the college town I was in, living in apartments with various interesting roommates, and eventually on my own. Throughout this time period, however, going back to Detroit was still "going home."
I think part of the reason was that I still had my room there. I had stuff in that room (which was essentially a free storage facility that contained a lot of old comic books, and remains of clothes that only functioned as nostalgia.) A few years ago, I bought a house, got married, and now have my own family. In the past year specifically, I was finally encouraged to take all of my stuff out of my old room at my parents' house... and by "encouraged," I mean they showed up one weekend with an SUV full of my things.
My old room has now been converted into a baby lodge. This last summer, my sister gave birth to twins, and they now have a wonderful place to stay with Grandma and Grandpa. It has been suggested that this room will also serve as a guest room for other infant lodgers... and by "suggested," I mean that it has been stated that it is now my turn to generate future guests.
My room, one emblazoned with racecar wallpaper and hundreds of G.I. Joe figures and accessories, is now yellow with two cribs in it.
My room, which once was my cave full of dirty clothes and comic books, now houses a diaper genie and a stockpile of burp cloths.
Standing in it at Christmas, I realized it didn't really look like my room any more... because it wasn't.
Home is where your heart is, they say. A lame cliche I know, and not completely accurate. Home is where your heart, and all of your shit, is.
It's weird growing up sometimes...
This weekend my wife, stepson and I were going to go back to Detroit to visit my parents. Plans fell through, so now we're going next weekend. But it got me thinking, as we discussed the plans to go to my parents' house.
Not too long ago, when going back there, I referred to it as "going home" for the weekend. As a side effect of getting older, I realize now that it is "going to my parents' house."
They still live in the house I grew up in from the age of about two until about nineteen, when I went away to college. After that time, it was just my summer residence, but it was still - for the most part - "home."
After my third year at college, I stopped going home for the summers, and my habitation became the college town I was in, living in apartments with various interesting roommates, and eventually on my own. Throughout this time period, however, going back to Detroit was still "going home."
I think part of the reason was that I still had my room there. I had stuff in that room (which was essentially a free storage facility that contained a lot of old comic books, and remains of clothes that only functioned as nostalgia.) A few years ago, I bought a house, got married, and now have my own family. In the past year specifically, I was finally encouraged to take all of my stuff out of my old room at my parents' house... and by "encouraged," I mean they showed up one weekend with an SUV full of my things.
My old room has now been converted into a baby lodge. This last summer, my sister gave birth to twins, and they now have a wonderful place to stay with Grandma and Grandpa. It has been suggested that this room will also serve as a guest room for other infant lodgers... and by "suggested," I mean that it has been stated that it is now my turn to generate future guests.
My room, one emblazoned with racecar wallpaper and hundreds of G.I. Joe figures and accessories, is now yellow with two cribs in it.
My room, which once was my cave full of dirty clothes and comic books, now houses a diaper genie and a stockpile of burp cloths.
Standing in it at Christmas, I realized it didn't really look like my room any more... because it wasn't.
Home is where your heart is, they say. A lame cliche I know, and not completely accurate. Home is where your heart, and all of your shit, is.
It's weird growing up sometimes...
posted by pairadocs at 23:45
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home