For one semester in college I lived and studied in London. Every free second I had I used to explore this amazing city and the surrounding countryside. By the time I returned to Washington, DC, I realized that I knew London far better than the city I had called home for over two years. I made a vow to no longer take for granted what DC has to offer and finally explore my home.
It wasn’t until I became a mom several years later than I finally began to enjoy DC. We’ve spent countless hours at the National Zoo, walking the grounds of the Mall, and exploring various Smithsonian museums. Recently we checked out a hidden treasure: The National Aquarium, which is housed in the lower level of the Commerce Building just moments from the National Mall.
My neighbors across the street have apparently been working on their home since before we moved into this neighborhood. As the story goes, the home had been abandoned and was used as a flop house of sorts for miscreants and hoodlums. After purchasing the home from the bank, the head of the household ran the squatters out by himself and then used his contracting company to renovate the now beautiful home.
When we moved into our little home on this side of the cul-de-sac, their home already shined as the bright star on a street of Brady Bunch-esque 1970’s ramblers and split levels, complete with vertical wood siding, step-down living rooms, and dens. Since then we’ve watched the workers periodically re-appear with their buzz saws and scaffolding. We’ve also watched the family grow. The oldest daughter had one child and then another, moving back into their home, kids in tow. The homeowners added a fifth child to their own brood as well making the total number of residents eight from what we can tell.
My first car was a 25th anniversary emerald green metallic Mustang convertible with a five liter V8 engine and white leather interior. In the snowy Pennsylvania winters I drove a series of beat-up four wheel drive vehicles to school, including a 1975 Chevy pick-up truck with a rusted off tailgate and a long-empty gun rack. Driving was fun, driving was exciting, driving was freedom.
I still remember my parents’ first mini-van purchase and the strong disdain I felt for that strange creation. The brake lights that outlined the rear hatch in long, red strips looked like a spaceship in the darkness outside of the school dance, and the stationary side windows prevented me from dangling a tan arm out the window to let people know how cool I was. The decision was made. I would never be like them. I would never own a personality erasing, coolness killing, automatic door sliding mini-van.
When the time came to visit pre-schools for my first child, I drove my bright red SUV up a winding road to what appeared to be a used mini-van lot. One tan van sat parked next to another. There were Siennas next to Odysseys and the occasional Nissan to break up the monotony or the periodic splash of navy blue to cut the stock colors like a flash of brightness. I rolled my eyes and parked my SUV on a parking space still half filled with snow…because I could.
I recently spoke at a blogging conference in Baltimore on a Saturday, and as I left my children sitting glaze-eyed in front of the TV, I was wrought with guilt.Saturday is family time and here I was, giving up the entire time that we had together to go far, far away.At 8:15 that morning I left the house to begin my journey and after slipping out of the conference and hitting the road thirty minutes early, I returned home about 6:00 that evening.
When I came into the house my kids ran at me, wrapping themselves around my legs, squealing with glee.They showed me how they had helped dad put the laundry away.I even got a tour of the bedrooms, which had been organized by my daughter, stuffed animals sitting neatly in a row.The final triumph, however, was the magnadoodle welcome sign that my six year old had written - “Welcome Home, Mom!”
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