Coming home

After 12 days in Seattle, I appreciate the sentiment that time moves too swiftly. Pre-wife, pre-Mommy, I used to fly home at least five times a year. I could work remote. And all the mileage accrued from work travel meant not only medallion status on Delta but many free frequent flier tickets.

I miss home. And many aspects of the Pacific Northwest. From beautiful landmarks like Lake Washington, Green Lake, and Pike Place Market on the waterfront to other less photo-worthy but still fantastic things like deluxe burgers at Dick's and the giant caramel/chocolate/peanut butter dipped apples I love from a little store on First Avenue.

I also miss the instant access to my family. There are many days when I wish the coordinates of my family allowed me to pick up the phone and ask any one of them, "Meet me for lunch?"

Our Mom still lives in the same house I was brought home to from the hospital. Oh, yes, she has remodeled the interior. And it is beautiful. (But I am still lobbying for some central AC. People in Washington don't need/want/or know about central AC.) 

And there is something to be noted about the moments that become personal snapshots of happiness. The first morning MiniMac and I woke up in the house I grew up in. His toddler bed moved into my old room. A room once plastered with posters of Billy Idol, the Calvin Klein underwear model, and Adam Ant. A room remodeled now but still maintaining empty dresser drawers for my visits home.

We awoke to my Mom poking her head in my room, with her affable and welcoming voice I woke up to for the first eighteen years of my life. (She, like me, very much a morning person.) MiniMac had crawled into bed for a morning cuddle and her voice rose above his giggles to ask, "Who wants pancakes for breakfast?" 

To which I respond, "I do." And she laughs because I drink protein shakes or eat egg white omelets and her question was directed to my son. But yes, when I am home, I want to sit at our kitchen table, looking into the amazing backyard, drinking tea, and eating pancakes my Mom made. 

Coming home produces a series of feelings in everyone. For some it is a haven. For some a sentence (and I am referring to the jail kind.) Some loathe it, some love it and I am definitely in the latter category.  The house where I grew up is like it's own vault of memories and coming home differs very little now from when I was 19 and coming home from college in the sense that being home always reflected so many great things in my life. And on the rare occasions when I felt disconcerted, being home always signified everything is going to be fine. And being home also meant my hopeful plea: PLEASE tell me Mom made chocolate chip cookies or and pumpkin bread.

And my brother and I would stay up late. Camped out in our family room. The SNL reruns we used to view now replaced by SNL "Best Of" DVDs. That particular room has absorbed conversations evolving from kid talk (like how he had a crush on a certain K. Holder in high school. Do not attempt to deny this as I have a stellar memory) to relationships, and later to advice (like for the love of GOD, would you please stop drinking so much MONSTER?) And I wish I could capture all of those conversations permanently.

While home this visit, my Mom suggested taking MiniMac to a new park. Once there, I suppose we were to let my child on the swings first but for some reason my brother said the word "contest" and I said "put your money where your mouth is" and we dominated the swingset for a good thirty minutes. As we swing, we make fun of one another's swinging skills. And we spent a good bit of time reenacting one of our favorite Saturday Night Live skits: You got to SIMMER DOWN NOW.  And I do believe we laughed harder in that time frame then we have in a long time. My Mom and son watching from picnic benches and laughing with (or at) us.

The just desserts served to us both later when at a tiny drive in near my Mom's that is so old I think Moses used to visit, my son, licking his giant soft serve twist cone says, "Uncle D,. you got to simmmma dowwwwn now. 

As I scrolled through the pictures, this one seemed to pinpoint the heart of the afternoon. Not only did I note that my brother's attempt to school me on the swing set old elementary school style required that he truly put his back into it, it also captured something far more significant for me.

More than just the freedom and opportunity to act like a kid, it was also the recognition that yes, I am so lucky. And more essentially, it was the affinity for being with people I love, who love me, and knowing I can always come home.

Have a beautiful weekend.

So Taboo

Being home is always fun for me. I love this city, and the great time my family has together. Wonder where I get the sass from? Its in the DNA.

Case in point:

Our family loves playing Taboo. We wish it was an Olympic sport. Do you know Taboo? Basically, a word guessing game. You have a word on top of the card, and five words below it that you can not say any part of in your attempt to get your team to guess. You have one minute to get your team through as many cards as possible.

In the pic above, yearbook is the word you want your team to guess. The other team gets the buzzer, off you go. And of course, we also have the electronic version. Game-playing-nerdios.

My older brother and I think we are unbeatable with our spectacular vernacular. But everyone in our family loves to play and it is no holds barred.

Example A: On a previous visit home, after dinner and vino, we are playing Taboo with about eight people. My older brother, TumbleWeed (named so for his constant and nonstop traveling for work) is giving clues to my Mom, my little brother (HiPie), and a friend of ours. He is yelling out clues and finally says, "This is what JennyMac is!!!! This is what JennyMac is!!!"

My mom then shouts out with glee like one of Rudolph's reindeer mates: FLAT.

Wait a minute. Did my Mom just say I am flat? I mean, I am but is that how this family is giving clues?

My brother cracks up. He is laughing SO hard he can not finish his round. OOOOPS Mr. LaughyTaffy, times up. The word he wanted her to guess? ATTORNEY.

The word not to be guessed: flat

Example B: My Mom and my Father have been divorced for a long time. His house in WA is a mile away from hers so we see him often when we are home. He is a fierce game player. I believe I was taught cribbage at age six. He stopped over one night and we invited him to play. He declined but said he would listen in.

I am giving clues to my Mom and various others. I am describing a word like this:

thin, small, most people have them, very handy, in your wallet.

My Father who is NOT playing says: CONDOMS!

The word I wanted my team to guess: Credit cards.

The word I did not want them to guess: Condoms.

Guess who I did not want to hear shouting condoms about what my Mom has in her wallet? My Father. Her ex-husband for decades so ditto for her.

See what I mean? It is genetic coding.