It’s been three years now, and I can still remember the day I told Ethan I’d found where we WERE GOING to live.
“There’s one street [in this idyllic small town],” I said, “and the houses are in shambles on that road. I’m pretty sure we could [sell our firstborn to] live here, and also there’s water.”
(That last line was all it took to convince the world kayaking king we could call this small southern town home.)
I’m not sure what it was about this place. Maybe it was the crime rate (which I actually knew nothing about at the time-but soon learned when my cell phone was lifted off the sidewalk that the police took the time for a twelve hour manhunt to retrieve it. That preschool kid will never get off his Big Wheel to pick up toys off the sidewalk again.)
Maybe it was the way we could walk to church, or school, or market. The way strangers waved hello, genuinely smiled, were completely charming, somehow without meddling in your life.
Maybe it was the way new friendships were forged over losses, and fears, and 1 a.m. wakeup calls when your water breaks and you need someone to make sure your oldest doesn’t stick a knife in an electric outlet.
I handpicked this place. I love this place. And I love these people.
So why is my heart longing for somewhere else?
I’ve been asking myself this a lot lately, about my longing for somewhere else. I think it must be a mixture of homesickness for family, roots, the place where I grew up.
But it’s also a mixture of just being a little mom-weary. Chronic illness takes its toll, no matter how beautiful your surroundings are or how supportive your friends are.
Sometimes, even when you’re too old to say it out loud… it’s true that there’s no place like home.