Walking Backwards

We're back from our little weekend trip to Houston and are exhausted. My Mother-in-law's parting words to us rang clearly through the cold and windy afternoon "See you in three weeks!" Really, I miss my home.

You see I'm a homebody. I know it isn't the fashionable thing to be, but I don't mind. I like curling up in my bed to watch television shows with my husband on a television that I know how to work. I don't even mind that we have to give up the super-loaded cable package that we can get at the families' houses. I like knitting on my couch listening to CDs and not worrying that I should be helping to do the dishes. I like that I can leave my dishes in the sink until the house is quiet and I can run them under the hot, soapy water at my own pace and be lulled by their mediative clinks and by the the slow methodical nature of the task. I like that my son can climb on the furniture and not be scolded and that he can find his own juice cup and fill it and take it where he wants. I like our house. I like it's smooth wood floors and weird chonchoidial nature. My favorite things are in my house and so are my favorite pasttimes. I like it here. For some reason, though, I shun my house like the childhood blanket you always used to carry around, but are now too old to be seen with it. Whenever I fill out personal interest forms online or on the first day of class for a professor who I barely know and want to impress, I never admit my true and abidding house love. Under interests I alway write travel and museum hopping, art and literature. All of these are things I enjoy, I love Italy and the Museum of Glass, but really, I always come back to this place, it is where I feel most comfortable, most like myself. I miss my house now when all we seem to do is spend time away from it. I hope it knows how much I appreciate it.