H is for… home

H is for… home

The idea of home has always been a tricky one for me. This is a recurring theme for me (I may be a little obsessed with this notion).

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Where’s Home?

About 18 months after I move anywhere new, I start getting itchy feet.  I magically forget the painful process of packing everything we own, of readying a house for sale, rent, or return to landlord, of organising schools, animals, and our own travel.  I put on my rose-tinted glasses and look around for the next place to be.  I stare longingly at glossy photoshopped prints of far away places and imagine daily life there.  I conveniently forget the drudgery of learning where everything is, learning how to buy things in a new place, learning the local currency (both financial and linguistic), learning how to get around.  I forget the loneliness of leaving the familiar, the loved.  I forget the tentative toe-dipping terror of entering new friendships, the complicated dance of figuring out who the other person is, and how they work.  I have eyes only for the next adventure.

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Full time mothering and a small rant

Perks of Being a WallflowerSo, today in the newsfeed on one of the many social media sites I traverse was a meme that went something like “being a full time mother is the highest paid job in the world, because the payment is pure love”. It was posted for International Women’s Day (Saturday March 8th in case you’re wondering). The posted meme bugged me on a number of levels, but before I get into that, let me tell you a little about me.

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