No Place at Home

Oh my body, I recognize now what happened to you. Your most beloved place has been made unrecognizable. Remodeled without your approval; the new design includes things that you would never choose for yourself. But I hear you now. I am here for you. I will take you into nature, I will hold your hand, I will ask for silence and refuse to move. I will sit with you and close our eyes. We do not have to pretend to enjoy this, we don’t have to pretend that it doesn’t exist and we sure as hell don’t have to run away…

For those of us that treasured coming home from school and work, across the threshold into sanctuary, into sacred weightless silence, home was holy. As we opened the door, exhaling the bustle of the day and inhaling the soft familiar smell, we were home. 

No one told us that one day, this shelter would become disordered. Yet that’s exactly what happens after having kids. Not right away, but soon enough the space of home becomes something else, sometimes it even becomes something entirely different as we upsize for our family - new rooms to fill with furniture, but no new space for rest. Our sense of home, our fortress of magic and comfort becomes transformed, transfigured (maybe even disfigured) into a container of housework and unfriendly sensations. 

In this new reality when we reach the threshold, we are invaded: by strenuously loud noise, requests, demands, touch, smell, texture, emotion, tasks. We are obligated (by acceptable social norms, of course) to speak more than we did all day, more loudly and persistently. Each moment requires more effort here, more hurry, more response. We are also compelled (through internalized social norms, of course) to keep the house clean and beautiful and creative and fragrant with delicious smells (not to mention whimsically decorated). But what does it give us in return? A bed under a pile of laundry?

As parents we have to calmly accept this, find it joyful and know exactly how to navigate it. We choose to read poems about how children grow up one day, and recite “I GET to do the dishes” to turn despair into gratitude. And yet we find ourselves escaping to the bathroom for a moment of peace. But unfortunately there we are assaulted by the smell of catshit in the litterbox. We should know better. 

So we reach for the sound of the vacuum to drown out the racket or the incessant “where is Mom?” We zombie-stare into the shhhhush of running water as we rinse dinners down the drain. Any distraction so that the boom of our own voice doesn’t escape, desperately demanding silence. 

And we wonder why we feel different now. Maybe because it takes considerable effort to reshape our idea of home into something we endlessly build and maintain for others, while our memories of it become misplaced and irrelevant. Maybe because this transformation of our safe place is just another thing that says “I guess you don’t matter now”.  Maybe because we're tired as hell.

No one tells us that though and there is no place like home. 

But I hear you now and I won’t turn away. I won’t shame you for not “doing it right”. I won’t force you to move faster to outrun your anxiety. Run to nature, run to art, run to a friend, run to your mother or your partner. Break down, refuse to do this alone, acknowledge the absurdity, grieve.