3 grueling layovers, 4 flights that seemed they'd never end, 1 toddler. It was no easy trip home. Well, home for me, and a visit to baba and deda for Joseph.
Home. It is such a strange, bottomless word. It holds within an endless number of all the places where you've lived, loved, cried, and an endless number of all other meanings we may attribute to it. I left my home at 6 am on a Sunday, I got home at 8 pm on Monday. Two different locations, same place in my heart.
Going back to see the place where you grew up is a bitter-sweet kind of journey. It is as if you are coming to meet yourself 10, 15, X-teen years ago, to see if you have lived up to that person's expectations.
When we travel to other parts of the world, we learn as much about ourselves as we do about other places and people. When we come back home after a few years of being away, we are rediscovering the true selves under layers of what we have become.
We are still a little jet lagged, a little shaken by the change of routine. My toddler is hanging on to my hip 24 hours a day, screaming MAMA every time I step more that 5 feet away.
In the midst of this, we are getting to know new family members, devouring everything home cooked we can lay our stomachs on, and trying to slow down time that flies by way too fast.
More to come... from home.