One Homecoming, and Then Another.
Arriving home last week was like wrapping up in a familiar sweater and watching The Newsroom while eating coconut ice-cream directly out of the tub.
The kids ran through the house squealing: re-discovering treasures, opening cupboards, checking on toys. I sank down into a very hot bath. The kids watched their favourite shows on TV. I got some home-kill meat out of the freezer and made plans for a goulash-flavoured homecoming celebration. We checked out the yield of the feijoa tree, the plentiful leeks, the abundant tomatoes. We collapsed onto the couch with gigantic grins on our faces and proclaimed, It is Good to be Home.
A couple of days later we met up with our unschooling group. Another homecoming, another feeling of being wrapped up in the comfort of an old sweater. I was enveloped by three amazing women who hold the space for me to be arse-hangingly me, and who forgive me my many trespasses, and who are genuinely at my side.
My kids were welcomed back into the fold by their friends in the most gorgeous and social of ways, another opportunity for me to not worry about the “lack of socialisation” my children apparently have because they don’t go to school.
That night, we snuggled up in our gigantic bed, all together, after four months of sleeping semi-separately, and talked about our day. Louis declared “I have an amazing life.” I declared that I have an amazing group of friends. Joss said she loved how excited and happy and bouncy her friend was to see her.
We were, finally, all home.