Home. Home. Home.

After 10 days of traveling, visiting in-laws and parents, Christmas, a romantic getaway, my husband’s birthday, days of cooking and hours of crying-car toddler we are home. I unlocked our front door this afternoon, stepped in and took a big gulp of cold, slightly stale air with the tang of dying fir tree. I couldn’t have been happier.

Now, here I sit, alone and recouping between loads of laundry and season 3 of Sons of Anarchy (watched for the third time…). I have eggs cooked my way with my butter, my eggs and my salt and pepper, thankyouverymuch! and a cup of hot tea, sweet and creamy.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the holidays. I love that this was my parent’s “turn” for Christmas, that J and I got to get away for his birthday. But eating at Chuy’s tonight and slurping down a margarita might have been as much of a highlight as making peanut butter balls with my mom. I’m always sad to leave, but happy to be home.


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