What She Wore: gray yoga pants; white t-shirt; purple sweat shirt. I’ve noticed that my outfits are cuter on the days I don’t blog–maybe I should start lying.
Many pregnant women have what’s called nesting instinct where they prepare their home for the birth of a new baby. This can take several different forms–I know one woman who was trying to assemble a bookcase days before her daughter was born. Other women clean obsessively, fold clothes ad nauseam, or rearrange their closets.
For me, it’s taken on it’s own form–I’m starting to wonder if this place is really home. Yes, I live and work here–I put my head on the pillow every night. But deep down I wonder if this is where I’m supposed to be.
It’s the small things I spent a lifetime taking for granted that I want my child to have: to be wrapped in the loving embrace of a home full of relatives and food, to see the whole town turn purple and gold every Saturday in the fall, to believe that art, and music, religion and spirituality can all happily co-exist. I want my children to expect Red Beans on Mondays, to have definite opinions on the Tigers, and to boogie to "They All Asked for You" in the streets during Mardi Gras. In short, I want to them to know where they come from.
Their roots are from a place that is hopelessly flawed, and yet beautiful. A place with a culture and history rivaled by few American cities. A place where a hole-in-the-wall restaurant may be the best place in town, and where celebrating is a way of life. It’s not for everyone, but it was my home, my husband’s home, and home to generations before us.
I love my house here in AR, I love my job, and I love all the people I’ve met here. I am acknowledging these feelings with a lot of guilt–there is nothing wrong with where I live now, and I know that I could be very happy here. But home? Real home? I’m just not sure.
PS: Damn hormones–this one got me cryin’ on the keyboard. If you don’t get the title to this one. . . here’s where it came from.