I’ve decided that I’m never going to be one of those people who gets home and says “Ahh it’s nice to be back in my own bed.” Maybe it’s my unquenchable thirst for constant adventure or perhaps an easy boredom of the mundane, but if my life was one constant holiday I wouldn’t hate it.
I think the reason that this particular return has been the hardest, hinges on a few factors, mostly on the fact that I have just spent fifteen days with my family, who live two thousand kilometers away, which may be closer than your family, but right now it feels like it may as well be in another galaxy. I’ve watched my daughter learn new words with her grandparents, kiss her cousin on the lips (a practice which will eventually be discouraged but for now melts my actual heart), my husband and I spent our first night baby-less in fifteen months and had a blast, we ate until we couldn’t move and were blessed beyond belief by so many gifts at Christmas.
I suppose it’s best to be grateful for the time that we had away and think of the good times rather than the gut-wrenching effort to return to a city where we have no family. But tonight I’m just going to sit on the couch, with my TV dinner because we forgot to buy any other food, and sulk.