The Place I Call Home by Annmarie Ferry

Response to Invitation to Write #4.  Admittedly, I thought this prompt would be a piece of cake but found myself stuck.  With so many directions to go, I lacked a clear focus. Then, it dawned on me to ask my kids how they saw home. This was both brilliant and brave. These people tell it like it is.  I texted them so they wouldn't have to choke on tears trying to verbalize what home means to them.  I braced for the responses but was completely unprepared for what came across my screen over the next two days. 

Home.

Say the word repeatedly, and it becomes a chant, a prayer.

Home.

Feel the word:

the rush of breath when you vocalize the "h,"
the guttural "o" softening as it blends with the surrounding consonants,
the vibration of the "m" tickling your lips as it escapes.

Home.

For some, home conjures up memories of polished silver clinking against fine china, crystal goblets ringing out as a holiday toast is made.

For others, it is a backyard BBQ, paper plates in wicker holders, plastic forks and knives that snap under the pressure of sawing through grilled meat, Solo cups being raised in celebration.

For too many, home summons feelings of distress, physical and mental pain, a place wired with nervousness and fear.

It has always been important for me to have a comfortable home.  One where anyone who steps through the threshold feels welcomed and relaxed. I don't own one piece of china, crystal or silver, but I will serve you on big stoneware plates with modern flatware. You'll drink from a glass, but don't worry if you break it; it wasn't expensive.  Go ahead and lounge on the furniture, put your feet up, it's all made for living.  You may notice some spots I missed when cleaning, but everything is sanitary.

Home is a comfortable place.

Home is not a perfect place.

Home  is filled with four uniquely flawed and wonderful people. And, just like the people, the house itself has its flaws. Things break, sometimes in quick succession. When they do, we fix them, restoring them to a workable condition.

We do the same for each other.

I wasn't sure I had accomplished exactly what I had always wanted in a home, but after reading my kids' responses, I know I have:

A safe haven from the outside world.
A place I can actually be myself without feeling judged.
A place where failure is not an option and where I am pushed to be the best version of me. 
A place where my needs are met, physically and emotionally.
A place where we celebrate accomplishments, even little ones.
A place I can vent and get a shoulder to cry on if needed.
It's where my role models live. 

I haven't always been a perfect mom, a perfect spouse, a perfect friend.

I haven't always accomplished everything I wanted to do.

But this? This is enough to get me through. Every time I question myself, doubt myself, I will return to this.  Now I know that we built the home we always wanted, brick by brick, sometimes bracing for the weight of it all to crush us, but always managing to keep the fortress standing, never yielding to outside forces that wish to destroy us.

Home is not perfect, but it is safe, accepting, and authentic.

And, that's all I've ever wanted.