The Shores of Home

A pair of giant  boots greets me as I walk through the dawnlight kitchen with the Daisy Doodlebop. 

Both my feet would fit in one with room to spare.

A laundry basket that is not mine next to the counter. A baby swing, a lambie rattle, piles of books I have not and will not ever read.

Signs that a family lives here. Our boy is home from the wilds of Washington DC. Peggy perches in the kitchen most days, and Becky keeps her books close and her other books closer.

I read all the time people whining about their grown children moving home for a while due to the bad economy or unexpected circumstances of all sorts. All I can think is, for Heaven's sake, suck it up. Not too many generations ago life was fluid. Family ebbed and flowed around a grandparent center, like seas washing on the shores of home. 

I love it that our kids all come and go. Sometimes it gets crazy, but even when everyone is home this house is so big we still have two empty...well, unoccupied, they are far from empty....bedrooms. There is room for everybody and some to spare.

Everybody is gainfully employed and doing their part to keep America moving and growing. Building, fixing, feeding and cleaning up our country. Nuts and bolts jobs of which Mike Rowe would approve, with skills that are being lost all too quickly, as people walk away from the land and the tools that tame it.

And I get to play and flirt with dear Miss Peggy, who has recently discovered that she has feet, which never get lost unlike her binkie and bear, which elude her baby reach a hundred times a day. Feet are always right there handy to play with if she gets bored.

Life is good.