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I’ve been on a two-month long hiatus.  Exactly two months, I saw this morning, and it was nearly long enough to forget my password.  Thank goodness my fingers have a better memory than I do (I’ll never give up a real keyboard).

What is life telling you when you wake up every morning from a dream in which you’re either fighting with someone or you’re heartbroken?

Depression hurts, the ad says, and I might think I’m depressed, but I thought depressed people slept a lot.  That is not on my checklist.

So why my title?

I have a beautiful home.  I can’t imagine moving and the dirty secret is that part of it is the thought of leaving my family and the other part is leaving my house.

There it is.  I’m emotionally attached to a bunch of wood and compressed dust and some spun fiberglass.

I’ve seen magnets and posters and pillows that say things like “Home is where the heart is,” “Home is where you hang your hat,” and the troublesome “Home is where mom is” (love that one as a stepmom, even if I know what they’re saying).

I’ve also seen those stick-on sayings or graphic wall art pieces that say things like “This home is full of love, honesty, and sunshine shines out our bums.”  I cannot honestly buy one of these because my home is full of liars. We do have the sunshine option, however, and it is fantastic at parties.  I highly recommend it if it’s offered on your family model.

But why my title?  My oldest children have not been to what I think of as home for weeks and, for the oldest, nearly a year.  This pile of wood and dust does not speak to them as it speaks to me.  Which leads me to my title:  Home is what for them?  For me?  For you?

I think I’m ready to go back to bed.

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