“Bricks and mortar make a life.

But the laughter of children makes a home.”

– Irish Proverb

 

The traditions of travel are this: pack the bags, pack the car, get out the map, plan the stops, check in to the hotel or the inn or the RV park, plan meals, plan family games, plan outings, take lots of pictures. Make memories. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat.

As a woman and as a mother, as a teacher and as a vagabond-stuck-in-a-Gen-X’s body, I find an interminable itch in me to travel. It’s probably the busy-ness of our lives— the work-school-family-fun balance that is so hard to strike. Being away helps you to feel like you are released from your normal responsibilities. No vacuuming. No dishes. No meal planning. No laundry. No rinsing, no repeating. Your family gets a break. A break you’ve looked forward to. A break you deserve.

When I feel this itch lately though, I take the time to remind myself of this: to be on the move is precious, but to stand still is sometimes necessary. Home is something to be cherished. Homes are a delicately constructed puzzle. Your memories, your experiences and your belongings are all little artifacts that make up the jigsaw pieces.

We, in this family, have the habit of loving old houses. Houses that need a lot more work than we can ever afford or have time to do. We’ve lived in the construction and around the construction in two different homes. Our children have seen the changes that come with taking out a wall or putting in a window. They know, like anything, our home is always a work in progress. We like to think our home is a reflection of our optimism, our dedication. Never finished, never perfect, but ours.

My mother lives in my own childhood home. The walls where I was held as an infant. The bedroom I spent blaring teenage music. The family room that held groups of friends for countless sleepovers and birthday parties.  Lately, I have realized how luxurious it is to be able to visit the home where you came of age with your own children. To see them play in the same driveway and cu-de-sac, to see them ask where you slept, where your played, where you walked when you were their age. The comfort that returning to my childhood home brings me is hard to put into words. It’s nostalgia mixed with contentment mixed with a deep desire to hold onto your youth.

In returning from the home where I grew up, I think about how I am making a place to grow up for Parker and Celia. The traditions we nourish, the laughter we share, the chasing we do around and around the downstairs “circle.” These are all things that make up a home. And, although travel has been a great friend to us and has made our lives rich in experience, our home provides something different entirely. Lazy pajama mornings that turn into lazy pajama days, sticky cinnamon roll breakfasts, rainy day Lego building, mugs of steaming hot cocoa after snowman building, hot and humid afternoons pretending in the backyard, backpacked treks from the school bus through the front door, the smell of freshly popped popcorn for a night on the couch, gentle good nights in the hallway well after bedtime, a golden retriever who only goes to bed once we all are tucked in. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat.