There are times when living across the ocean from all your friends and family is a great thing. Like when you don't want to get involved in petty squabbles over silly things or when the thought of having to go to another family party with your uncle-twice removed makes you break out in a cold sweat. The excuse of being on another continent comes in handy.
But there are also times when it down right sucks that you live so far away. And the only person you can blame for this suckiness is yourself.
I have no regrets in the places I've lived or the world I've seen, but I hold myself responsible for the miles between me and my family. I chose to wander and meander, thinking it would always be easy to get back "home" when I needed to. And it was, until my definition of "home" changed.
Spending last week with my sister, her husband, and our friend filled me with such happiness. Laughing at old stories, comparing notes on children and old friend's children, watching Hubster and my brother-in-law find solace in the fact that both their wives are nuts was wonderful. I admit to feeling like I've made a mistake living so far away. Especially this week with my mother's birthday and my oldest niece graduating from high school. Momentous occasions that should be celebrated en famille. Which they were, just without my branch.
Melancholy can strike even in spring.
But then my Hubster came home last night from work, he laughed with our kids at the dinner table, splashed with Bubba-Love in the bath, and rocked Whoops while staring out at our back garden. He sat with me in our house and, tired as we are, he made me smile and laugh. His presence reminded me that home is where my heart is and that's right here.
I miss my family and I'm so grateful for the efforts they make to stay close. I think they know that my heart was always searching for it's own place and now that I've finally found it, the miles don't matter all that much.
If only we could win the lottery to pay for the bloody airline tickets to cross those miles more often.