Home and family

Giraffe
My grandparents had separate bedrooms when I was little. I often stayed overnight at their house and could sleep in either one. I remember being asked to choose as bedtime approached. I always picked Grandpa's.

It now strikes me as unfair – my consistent choice of one over the other – but he was my favorite. Grandma and I would nap together during the day, read stories and talk. But Grandpa, he would sing songs, and play school and walk with me while I rode my Dukes of Hazard Big Wheel.

He would count my bones – rubbing circles up and down my back while he counted softly, soothing me into sleep. Of my childhood memories, all of them good, one of my favorites is falling asleep smiling when Grandpa would tell me I must be a giraffe. Because I had so very many bones in my back. I'd tell him that he was counting the same bones over and over as he went up and down over and over. He'd laugh and tell me I was his little giraffe.

He died when I was in first grade. Had yet another heart attack while mowing the lawn and never woke up. I understood early that you had to treasure people while they were around. Because sometimes, inexplicably, they’re taken away. All I’m left with are moments I remember, laughter, songs I still sing for comfort, and the hope that someday I’ll get to count someone’s bones and pass that piece of him on.

Friends or family?
In junior high, I was a state representative for the student council association. Trust me when I tell you to be impressed. Really – it was a big deal.

The speeches, travel, organizing – all fine. But summer camp? I’d never been away from my family for more than a night, and didn’t even care for sleepovers at friends’ houses. So leaving for a week was met with much resistance. But I had fought a hard campaign to win my position (seriously – remember to impressed), so I had to live in some shack, use community showers and have lakeside fun for a whole week. Awful.

I remember playing the question game though, so camp wasn’t all bad. I sat in a circle on soft green grass, watching carefully for bugs, with 8 other students and a dreamy high school counselor. We were going around answering the questions, laughing a bit, getting to know each other.

“Friends or family?” Dreamy asked, and I smiled from my position opposite him because this was an easy one.

My face fell as the 4 students who answered before me were unanimous in their “friends!” response. No, no, no. I thought. Family. The support, understanding, laughter, safety, love that I’d felt so far had come much more strongly from relatives than peers. They didn’t think I was strange for refusing party invitations to spend time alone, smiled fondly at my inclination to read rather than join them to watch movies. Listened intently as I described problems with friends or boys, never sharing that information with others to increase their social status. The comfort that I felt with my family so far surpassed that I felt with friends that there was no question of my answer, but when my turn came, I gave it softly. I was the only family vote.

“Moving out”
It should come as no surprise that I struggled with moving out at age 18. I would stare at my ceiling at night in high school, unable to sleep, struggling to breathe in the face of panic caused by picturing myself somewhere far (like a 90 minute drive) away. I was vastly relieved when scholarships were awarded to the pricier institution closer to home.

Knowing me very well, my parents insisted I live in the dorms, and I agreed gracefully. It was the right thing to do. But after carefully moving my belongings, buying new things, and settling in, I probably spent 2 nights a week on campus. I’d more often make the early drive back from home to attend classes, drawing comfort from telling myself nothing had to change.

Grad school was harder – the 3 hour drive too long to make each day – so I often lived for weekends. I settled into a routine of spending every other weekend at home, and would pack my suitcase, then trek home, settling into my old bedroom that had been kept nearly identical to its high school state. For the most part, I was fine with my bimonthly visits, though I would occasionally get twitchy after a week and sneak out of the city and head back to the quiet at home.

It was detrimental to many friendships, platonic and otherwise. If you’re in my life, you’ll know with absolute certainty that my family outranks you. No question. If they call, I’ll ignore you. If I crave being home, I’ll cancel plans to make that happen. It’s just how it’s always been. How I thought I always would be.

Jane
I had an acquaintance in grad school. We never quite made it to friendship, though we did respect each other and had interesting conversations. I always left her feeling vaguely guilty though – she was incredibly faithful. Mission trips, long-term goals revolving around God, church at least 3 times a week, wouldn’t associate with anyone who wasn’t strongly Christian, had a roommate who had converted to Christianity upon her arrival from Korea. Conservative and intense, she was a completely gentle and lovely person. I liked her, but wasn’t ever very comfortable.

We had lunch, as was our habit, once a semester after we became dissertators. At our last meeting, perched on a bench watching one of the many fountains on campus, I asked about her family. She, like me, escaped to the comforts of home with great regularity. So I asked when she’d last made the trip.

“Three months ago, I think. Maybe more.” She responded, looking down at her sandwich while my eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Wow! You finally grew up! That’s great.” I joked, trying to make a quick recovery from my surprise and dismay that someone else had broken the ties that bind me to home.

“They adopted 2 children from church.” She informed me, even more solemn than usual. “It’s just not the same anymore. I don’t really feel like I have a place there, so I’ve stayed away. They haven’t been here to visit either. And when we talk, it’s always about the girls.

“But that’s fine. It was probably time to be more independent. To grow up.” She smiled at me weakly before dropping her gaze again.

“Oh.” I said softly. Then I told her how hurt I’d be – that no matter what my age, I liked feeling special and important and loved when I returned to my childhood home. That I was slightly worried about adding a grandchild to the mix because it would certainly draw attention from me, and, well, I do enjoy attention. I still wonder about Jane – how she coped with the jarring shift in dynamic from a source that had offered such comfort in the past.

Now
I find that my dynamic has shifted too, though in a much more subtle, gradual way. I moved farther away – inconveniently far, actually – so weekend trips are tough. It’s a tremendous amount of driving for a day or two with my parents.

I also really like my house. All my stuff is here – all the books, music, comfortable beds and pillows, wireless internet. I’m quite comfortable in my own space, and have plenty to share when extra people are around. Plus, I finally feel like my job is really important – that as they near retirement, it could be more reasonable for them to take time off for a longer visit than it is for me. Perhaps I feel more professionally equal having moved out of the student stage of my life.

Then there’s the Little One, who I adore completely. I think she’s representative of everything hopeful and lovely, and if I get to spend 5 minutes on the phone to hear her say “ ’lo?” twice, it’s often the best 5 minutes of my day. But she’s a demanding little girl, and the attention is rightfully bestowed upon her, regardless of the humor or importance of my riveting stories.

There’s also the Sister-in-Law, who I don’t adore completely (or much at all). Dealing with her is miserably difficult for me, and avoiding her is often much more tempting than returning home.

I looked forward to the visits home less over the last few months. Spaced them out a bit more. But after packing my things and placing the dog in the passenger seat with her blanket, I continued to feel that familiar lightness that heading home has always brought. Things are the same, I comforted myself, or very nearly so. Nothing to worry about.

I had planned to head north this morning. But then I had 3 hours to think about everything in my life last night in what should have been a 30 minute commute home. 3 hours, people! Not even Chandler can save me from being irritated by that. I finally got home, almost panting with frustration, and called my parents. Told them I wasn’t feeling very well, ankle was still sore, was in a mood, and was considering postponing the visit. Dad was disappointed, but quickly handed the phone to Mom so he could deal with Brother’s dog and the Little One. Mom was also distracted, asking me to call this morning and let her know what I was going to do.

I cancelled. For the first time I can ever remember, I decided to stay away. It’s a mental change for me – a small one, sure, as I’ll probably make the trip next weekend, but an important one. Perhaps it represents one less barrier between me and starting a family of my own. Maybe I’m finally growing up, rather than just getting older.

For whatever reason, home to me is starting to be this place I’ve created for myself. I’m not sure if that makes me proud or sad. I’ll have to let you know when I figure it out.