7,200 kilometers later, (a KM is 6/10 of a mile) we’ve come full circle back to our caved in driveway in Coventry Hills. Amazing.
First reaction, home was just home. Home sweet home, that is.
Second: Home means the loading dock. Teamwork, people! Noah, put this at the foot of mommy and daddy’s bed. Glory, put this on the kitchen table. Joel, quit playing, we’re unloading.
Third: Home is the warehouse. Piles and piles of stuff cover the floor, like some treasure chamber belonging to an ancient pharoah, except nothing we own glitters anymore — dirty laundry, rubbermaids full of beachcombing booty, souvenirs, luggage, camping gear, Target bags. You name it.
Fourth: Home is cleaning bay. Rip the seats outta the van. Pick up all the miniscule Star Wars guns, Polly shoes, lost pencils, seashells, and fragments of lost civilizations that fell between the seats. Commission Joel to pick up everything else that can’t be picked up by our vacuum. Vacuum. Wipe entire van down with Pine Sol. Dump bucket once for new hot water. Replace seats. Replace mats. Sigh.
Fifth: Home is launch pad. Glory is at the park with her friend. Joel is… is… where is Joel? Noah is a couple of blocks away with his supper clenched in his fist and may be spending the night with a friend. At their house, not ours. No way.
Sixth: Home is a publishing house. Sit down after cleaning the van, plug in my Mac (I’m a Mac person), and knucker out this blog post (Knucker… I made that up).
Seventh: Home is… home. Just home. Sigh. And thank God.