I haven’t been home at my parents’ house since November, until now.  I just got in today and am fired up to finish my research paper and get some R&R that only home can provide.

There are many things I don’t like about home: it’s messy, it’s boiling hot, my dog’s hair is over everything…  However, it’s still home, and as I play house as a grown adult elsewhere and figure out how I want to run my house, I have come to appreciate the comforts of home.

While one of my favorite things about being home used to be sleeping in a big bed with my cat after a brutal semester, that’s now missing.  Well, at least the cat part.  Sammy’s currently living with me in Washington, so I suppose I get to cuddle her and play with her as much as I want.  The big bed is still here, and it’s as rejuvenating as ever.


There is no large desk for me to spread my stuff onto, but somehow that’s okay when I get frequent “How’s it going?” and warm coffee from my parents.  The little things they do to show they care really add up.

I can’t explain the joy of being home other than “warm and fuzzy,” and I’m not talking about the dog hair and Oklahoma temperature again.  It’s an internal, uh, fuzziness, and I think it only comes from being where I truly belong.  I get the same feeling when I’m with my best friends from Gustavus.  However, there I inevitably am overly careful to be a good guest.  It’s nice to literally be able to put my feet up and relax.