Home Again

22 Dec

It is so strange to me that even though I am 27 years old I still say that I am going home or refer to my parent’s house as “my house.” Forget the fact that my childhood room is an office now; I still think of it as home.

BUT, I simultaneously think of my house as home. They are both home. At the same time. Really, the house Mark and I have together is home now, but my parent’s house is possibly the only other house where I can totally relax. Like walk around barefoot, wear no makeup and pick my nose type relax. I don’t know why that is. Maybe because that house has seen more akward phases of my life than I would care to remember, or maybe because I claimed the upstairs bedroom with all the windows and some sort of vampire book imprinting happened.

But  this is how I know Christmas. We can’t have a tree without an angel on top because that is just how it is done. Why an angel would have a tree up her dress I do not know, but how do you explain a star topper either? There are certain things that just make up Christmas: a stocking hung up for the dog as another excuse to give her a treat, all our handmade ornaments on the tree, and putting on every article of clothing gifted to you for the annual after gift photo.

But then Mark and I are starting our own traditions: all stockings and ornaments should match, the puppies get a new collar every year, and we sleep in because we already know what we purchased for each other for Christmas.

Somehow I am fortunate enough to get to have both Christmases. Simultaneously (or one after the other as the case may be). In both the places I call home.

My parent's Christmas tree.




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