There's something about returning home that feels like fresh air, even if the air itself is a bit stuffy after a couple of weeks away. The husband and I walk through each room, opening blinds and windows to release the heat and stuffiness. It's rewarding to see everything just the way we left it. The beds are neatly made, clean towels are waiting for that first oh-how-I-missed-you shower, and our pillows have never felt so deliciously comfortable as they do that night. Only the empty fridge needs to be taken care of.
I unpack suitcases and backpacks, storing the empty luggage until next time. It's satisfying to put everything in it's proper place again. I start the laundry and empty the dishwasher before beginning the next day's grocery list. The kids are rediscovering all their favourite toys while the husband and I enjoy the quiet of our own separate activities, introverts recharging after all that travelling and visiting.
We haven't yet lived in this house for a year, but as soon as we stepped inside, the husband noted that it felt like home. The boy declared that he likes to be home the best, and I agree with the both of them. Being here just feels right.
The garden has grown beautifully in our absence - both the vegetables and the weeds. I'll take care of the weeds first and then we'll plant some more. We'll get back into our small routines of mealtimes and bedtimes and read-alouds and the rest. There's a midwife appointment marked on the calendar for next week; it feels grounding, somehow, that small square of evidence that we're returning to our daily lives, business as usual.
Ah. It's good to be home again.