Touch down, though seemingly a mile away from the plane's door, meant rest, relief, home sweet home, and a three day Easter weekend.
The problem was in my Mom's eyes, I was only half way there. Home was another couple states away. And I could tell she was sad that I wasn't getting back on a plane to complete a near cross country journey.
Every year, Bing Crosby croons that there's no place like home for the holidays. Which I'm assuming you can translate not only to Christmas, but Easter and a couple other majors. But when you are 30-something and starting your own little family, home because a little less defined. Is it the place you are raising your child? Or the place you were raised? Present or past? Here or over the river and through the woods?
Recently, I've started to equate the notion of home with rest and convenience. It's where my bed and Mary's crib are. It boasts my oatmeal, a jogging stroller, grill accessories and a subscription to Mad Men. It's where I can find an alternative to the outfit that doesn't fit, an endless supply of diapers, and my rules. Home is easy. Which in essence makes the holidays a little easier.
So we spent yet another holiday in and around our house.
Through the years, I know it will get more difficult too. Especially as I think about the day that Mary closes our red door and opens her own. Maybe we'll only really understand what home means when we're all together again.