The Things Worth Coming Home Tired For

We were only gone a few days. Harold, me, and Lou ... our sweet, older dog who lives by a very specific code involving his couch, his yard, and his schedule. Quick trip south through Idaho, down into a small town called Horseshoe Bend, just north of Boise, to spend time with my brother's family.

I want to say it was relaxing, and some of the time it was, but it also wasn't. It was full and loud and busy and wonderful, and we came home completely wrung out in the best possible way.

The drive alone was worth every mile. Montana into Idaho, winding south on roads that curl through the mountains in short hairpin curves, the kind that make you grip the door handle and then forget to because you're too busy staring at the absolute beauty. Rivers ran beside us almost the entire way ... not the tired, sandy riverbeds I grew up knowing in Arizona, but rushing, clear, cold water that meant business. Fishermen stood in the current up to their thighs. Wildflowers pushed up along the shoulders. We spotted elk, antelope, deer, eagles, and more birds than I could name, all completely unbothered by our passing through.

Lou made sure we didn't rush it. Older dogs need more stops ... to stretch, move their bones, do their job ... and, every time we pulled over, I was grateful. We stood in that beauty instead of just driving through it. He slowed us down in just the right ways.

We stayed in a little apartment above a garage... clean, comfortable, with fantastic views. Lou, though, was not charmed. The stairs were a challenge for all of us, but especially for him, and I could see it on his face ... that particular canine look that says, "This is not what I agreed to." He was sweet and patient with everything, tolerant of the chaos, the new smells, and the small hands reaching for him. But he wasn't quite himself. He wanted his bed. His yard. His version of normal. I understood completely.

The highlight ... the one I keep coming back to ... was getting on the floor with the babies.

There were two little ones, and two more on the way, sweet round bellies and all. And something happens when you get down on the floor with a baby. Your knees stop complaining. Your back forgets it had a list of grievances. The playfulness just takes over, and suddenly you're chasing someone across the carpet, shrieking with delight, and laughing so hard you can't remember what tired feels like. I spent thirty years in classrooms, and I recognized that feeling immediately. Children pull you into the present, whether you're planning to go there or not 

We sprawled out in my nephew’s family home…the whole gang.  Talking a million miles an hour, laughing at family jokes and happenings.  Making fun of my mom, who, if she were still with us, would be swinging the broom at us.  Even after years of not seeing each other, we were right back to being comfortable, caring for, and loving on each other.  

We also did something completely unplanned ... three carloads of family piled into trucks, and cars for an early-morning garage-sale crawl through a high-end neighborhood. I did not anticipate how much fun that would be. The kids spending their chore and birthday money. A ping pong table getting loaded into a truck. Baby gear, furniture, and things that made everyone squeal. We laughed so much. 

Then went back and had delicious homemade tacos, happy-birthday Cold Stone ice cream cupcakes, and sang at the top of our lungs.

And woven through all of it, steady beneath all the noise, was my brother.

I am the oldest of four. We've lost two whom we truly miss. It's just the two of us now, and I don't take that lightly. Being with his family… watching this whole warm, chaotic, loving branch of our family tree that he helped create but only got better and better on their own... I just soaked it in. I love my family.

By the time we pointed the car toward home, we felt sad and a little ready, too. That last stretch of the road home... those final two hours... have their own particular feeling.  The anticipation builds in your chest until you can almost feel your own front door under your hand. I was thinking about our bed. The bed that has learned the specific shape of me over the years of sleeping in it. The couch where I can stretch out completely, feet up on Harold’s lap. Your own home has an energy that nowhere else has, no matter how lovely that nowhere else might be. You feel it the second you walk in.

Harold and I were both ready. We were so happy to be home.

But nobody ... and I mean nobody ... was happier than Lou.

He walked straight to his spot, circled once, and was down before we'd even gotten our bags through the door. Done. Home. Everything right with the world.

I've gotten texts and calls since we got back. They wish we'd stayed longer. They're already planning visits north. That kind of news fills my heart, too.

Here's what I keep thinking about: we came back exhausted, yes. But also, with fuller hearts. That's the thing about the people who matter ... being with them costs you something, and it's absolutely worth it. No question about it.

I think that's true at every age. But I notice it more now. I pay attention differently. I get on the floor. I watch the young parents finding their footing and think, “look at you.”  I listen harder and look them in the eye.
I’m so proud of ALL of them. I hold my brother a little longer on the way out the door. 

Time moves. 

You might as well be awake for it.

Love is ALL there is,

Diana