We went over to my parent’s house for Labor Day. We usually go over to my parent’s house for holidays. Going to my parent’s house is exhausting. Not from the standpoint of seeing them. From the standpoint of packing up the kids, and all of their stuff, making the hour drive, and then playing parental tag team all day, until we have sensory overload, followed by meltdown.
I also hate going to their house, because my mother smokes in the house, and the smell gets to me. I don’t begrudge her smoking in her own house. They pay the bills. I don’t understand it, but I know she really has no idea how bad it smells. Because obviously, I grew up with the smell and I never noticed it until I moved out. Now, I have to come home and strip everyone down, give the kids a bath, and throw everything we brought with us, in the wash. I hate the idea of the kids breathing in all of that recycled second hand smoke that’s lingering in the air. My mother never smokes in the house when the kids are around. They’ve never once seen a cigarette, but it’s there, in the air. 25 years worth of smoke. And it makes me paranoid.
And it makes me realized that the house that I grew up in, isn’t my house anymore. I don’t feel at home there. I’m merely a guest. Sleeping there is not comfortable for me. Things that once were so familiar to me, now seem foreign. I have my own home now, and while my house still doesn’t entirely feel like home to me, it’s familiar. I look forward to getting back to it when we’re away. It’s comfortable.
“You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore? All of a sudden even though you have some place where you put your shit, that idea of home is gone.”
I wonder if we all wander around feeling like this once we grow up and leave our childhood home.