In an effort to reconnect to this little world I’ve neglected during the first few months of motherhood, my next few posts will end with some questions for you guys. I hope you will answer them in the comments and create a discussion, so I can get to know you as well as you know me! I plan on responding to many comments as well…a perk of O’s nap time. (You are my favorite part of this whole blogging thing, you know.)

Home. You get asked about it all the time. Where are you from? Where is home?

For the longest time, I would answer New York. My family, my childhood; it all existed in the middle of the state in a small town where there wasn’t much to do, but it was a nice place to grow up. It was never a question that my roots were planted firmly in the Empire state soil.

I left New York nine years ago for college in Rhode Island. I had no intentions of staying after I graduated, but I welcomed the change in venue after 18 years in one place. Still, New York remained home. The place I came to be surrounded by my family, to celebrate the holidays, or come home with bags of dirty laundry on breaks from school.

You know how the story goes — freshman year I met a boy — and before long, my zip code had permanently changed. Rhode Island was where I lived, and yet, I still didn’t call it home.

It’s taken years, but I realized the other day that this place? This is my home now. It hit me while pushing my son in the stroller down our town’s bike path. There was a warm breeze and the sun was filtering through the trees and suddenly it hit me: I’m really happy here. I love my town: the cute shops, the proximity to the ocean, the small town-, but not too small town-ness of it. I love how the local bagel shop owner knows us by name and followed my pregnancy with happiness and excitement. I love how the cashier at the grocery store smiles at my baby and how the barista at Starbucks knows our drink order by heart.

Our house — with the sunny guest room and the big back yard, the house with the light green nursery and cozy living room — it’s no longer just a house to me. This is the place where my little family began. Where I came back to after my honeymoon with my husband, where I first placed my baby in his bassinet.

My parents, my sister; they will always mean home to me. Wherever they are will always be a haven I can return to.

But my roots are planted elsewhere now. Buried deep in the sand in a little town by the sea.

What does home mean to you? Is it your childhood house? Your first apartment? A big comfy chair by the fire? Please share with me!

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