I Will Be Their Home.
I will be their home.
I remember when I was little, and I would go for an overnight at a friend’s house. For awhile, it was incredibly special—all of that newness—and then, eventually, I would gratefully look forward to going home.
I will be their home.
Our house often smells like onions sauteing, coffee making, and my favorite spiced candle glowing in the kitchen.
I will be their home.
Our house has a loved-in look, because I’ve chosen to let go of anything else with two small children living in it—playing in it.
I will be their home.
My oldest told me that she wants to make new friends, and I have to hope that she’ll have better success meeting new little hearts to exchange giggles and imaginations with as she grows older, and is in school for more than a few hours in the morning.
I will be their home.
I want her to have other places to go, besides home and the gymnastics studio and Target and the grocery store—those types of places that she frequently goes with me.
I will be their home.
The baby is social too, and seems invigorated being around others, and seeing and experiencing new things. Sometimes we go to the zoo for an hour randomly in the middle of an afternoon just to get these two small, extroverted sweethearts out and into this big, wide world.
I will be their home.
I will be the woman they rebel against, and my personal qualities will possibly be the same ones they both admire and loathe. They might love, for instance, that I shared my passion for exercise, but remember with annoyance that I was moving through sun salutations on my yoga mat, or lifting weights and pressing out “just one more set, I promise,” when they were tired of it and ready for puzzles instead.
I will be their home.
These smells, and sounds, and personalities that fuse four people within my own little special spot on this expansive Earth—this relatively small place that takes up more than 99 percent of my heart—will be their comfort.
I will be their home.
They will “go home” if they go away to school. They will “come home” from teenage jobs and activities. They will invite friends over, and this will be where their souls gravitate to, until they have their own little homes that feel like a snugger fit.
I will be their home.
I will hold them within my mother-breast long after I’m gone. I will hope with the most earnest sentiments that they live long and happy lives, and that they know I loved them truly while I was here with them.
I will be their home.
I will be the shoulder that they cry on, and the arms they run towards, and the lips they kiss goodnight, and the ear that listens as long as they and God let me.
I will be their home—and when these days seem long and my patience short, I remind myself how humbly and lovingly indebted I am for it.
