We may not have a house ...

It's Wednesday and as I sit in my hotel room I'm about to cry for the first time since Friday night.

"I want my home!" Wesley sobbed Friday at Oma's house. "I just want my home!"

Notice he said "home" and not "house."

His words touched me as I lay in bed with my arms wrapped around his body. He fought me, but eventually sank into me and then sank into sleep. He looked peaceful despite the fact that everything he had just asked for -- his cars, his trains, his bed, his home -- was packed away.

Earlier that day I drove with my nearly three year old and three week old sons four hours away from a routine, a clean bathtub, and more than a few sets of ears, shoulders, and arms on which I could rely. My husband and our dogs followed us much later in the evening. The separation was our solution to meeting the competing needs to get Wesley out of a house filled with his packed toys and to stay until the movers finished loading a truck that hadn't arrived.

Wesley and I both were relieved to get on the road and start the adventure. I stopped every 45 minutes to nurse Boden. Wesley's cold sedated him a bit, making the trip more manageable than I had thought it would be. We arrived at my grandmother's home (after driving past Omi's house ... notice I didn't say "home") and Wesley perked right up.

Oma's home is not childproof and is filled with beautiful glass things ... which meant that I juggled the two boys for most of the afternoon and evening. I received some much-needed relief from my cousin Kimi (thank you).

So Friday night when Wesley fell asleep, Boden was in my cousin's arms in another room, and I had a moment to myself I thought about all the things I had left behind and let the tears flow. The tears turned to sobs.

"I was prepared for this move," I thought to myself. "I want this move." I sighed and wondered why change -- the constant sign of life -- can be so hard to accept.

Why not welcome change? After all, I don't want to be who I am today a year from now no more than I want to be today who I was last year.

*Sigh.*

I also desire roots. And roots grow deep when plants are left alone. So part of me is saying, "Leave me alone! I don't want to move! I don't want to start over! I want my home!"

Home. There's that word again.

I moved around a lot growing up and spent grades 10 to 12 in three different schools. During all of my moves I had two constant homes: Omi's and Oma's.

My grandmothers lived less than 1 mile from each other. Their homes have remained the same since I can remember. (Both still had their 70s shag carpet until Omi's recent death.) These two homes always felt like just that -- home.

I wondered, when Omi died, how I would be able to drive by her home again and not be able to stop by and sleep in its crisp white sheets or smell its unique Omi smell. The loss of one of my only constant places compounded the loss of one of my favorite people in the world.

Then, at her yard sale, when I saw all of the quirky things she liked and valued dismantled and out of the places they had been for at least 30 years, I realized that none of these things made her place home. I didn't even reach to save and take home some of the things I thought I would. Somehow, without her there to treasure them, they lost their value.

Some of her things are in my home (or at least in boxes in a storage unit somewhere in Texas). I have a rug my great grandmother made, my great grandmother's silver, her wedding band (melded to my great grandfather's band), Omi's china, her signature strand of pearls, and a few other things. Oh, and I have her signature plant.

If you know Omi, you know the plant.

"I clip them when the get leggy," she used to say. And she'd stick the clippings in water until they rooted and then replant the "babies". She often gave the plants away. I have quite a few in my home (well, in a u-haul trailer in the parking lot ... that reminds me, I need to water my plants and let in some sunshine).

I also have offspring from plants that belonged to my mom, mother in law, Oma, and a handful of good friends. I like to think of these plants as the branches and leaves of my own personal "family" tree -- rooted in my heart.

I don't know how to explain to young child, "Home is where the heart is." It's one of those nice things people say. When I hear it I wonder if people really get the sentiment behind it. I wonder now if I get the sentiment. My heart is right here. But where is my home?

I didn't know what to say to Wesley last Friday and I still don't know what to say to him when he asks for his home and his bed. I tell him that I want a home too, and that we are looking for one.

Now I wonder if I get that home is not the clean bathtub or the predictability of my everyday life? It's not the house I hope to find, nor is it the toys that fill the boxes Wesley longs to open.

What is home? Is it the couch? No. It's the feeling I get as I melt into the couch ...

Bo cried on average every hour of our trip. As soon as he would start to cry (and often right before when I was following my instincts) I would pull off the Interstate and into a McDonald's parking lot and walk around to his side of the car. I'd open the door and start talking to my hungry son. As soon as he heard my voice his face would start to relax. As soon as I picked him up his body would start to relax. As soon as I held him and nursed him he'd melt into me in a way that said, "I'm home."

If he's home. Aren't I?

Our couch may be in storage, but we sink into each other.

We may not have a house, but we've sure got a home.