A Woman's Home is her.... in Feeling like Sybil

Well, that’s what they say.
And I guess “they” are right. I mean.. “they” know everything apparently. But sometimes there’s no place like the beach, too.

But for me, Home is my refuge. I love being at home.

Not because it’s a grand house. There are nicer in my neighborhood.
Not because it’s a big house. I’ve lived in smaller, but again, there are bigger ones around here.
Not because it’s clean. CERTAINLY not because it’s clean.
It’s never clean.
Not because it’s where my family and pets are. (See reference about it never being clean.)

No, it’s not that either, because my wi-fi also automatically connects at school and I do NOT want to live there (altho it sometimes feels like I do.)

Well, yeh…there IS that… and that’s how I usually am, truthbeknown…

But for me, I love my home because it’s where I can breathe.
Usually, I mean.... between girlchild teenage drama and the latest tales of alzheimermama and what she did over and over and over all day because she couldn’t remember she’d done it already.

It’s where I collapse at the end of the day, usually about 13 hours after it began. It’s where I can come in and dump my stuff. All my stuff. My school bag, my talk show notes, my laptop, my flat diet coke from lunch before noon and empty coffee cup that I left the house with that morning.
It’s where I can dump my feelings. All my feelings. The “first I’ve got to get out of these clothes and shoes and then make dinner for the kids and MIL and get it to her and then finish schoolwork and type up tv station stuff and vent to my husband while we play dominoes about all the demands being made on us at school and cry about how I’m not sure I should teach anymore because it’s not fun anymore and the only thing that keeps me there most days is my coworkers whom I love and those little children, most of whom I love with a couple that I’d gladly trade to another teacher and I just wish there were another career with the pay and benefits and people I work with out there sometimes, and oh look it’s 11:30 I should feed the dogs and think about our own supper so I can be in bed by 1:00am to do this all over again tomorrow” feelings.

It’s where noone cares if I stay in my jammies all day on Saturday and troll the internet and watch Sex & the City on tv all afternoon and order pizza for supper. (Not that I get to do that very often..but noone here cares when I do!)

It’s where the walls protect me from the outside demands and I don’t HAVE to think about test scores and data and lesson plans and interviews and I CAN sit at the table and play dominoes all night if I want to. (and I’m a kickass domino queen, let me tell you straight up!)

yes… my home, my fortress, my refuge.
Where I can do what I want, when I want…in between taking care of everyone and everything else of course.
But it’s my place. And if I don’t feel like doing those things, for my loved ones, they understand.
It’s where I go to recoup, to refresh, to remind myself why I do all that other stuff I do outside the doors of my abode.

It’s a lot like me… not fancy, not perfect, could use some touch ups, but cozy, comfortable, inviting, safe, secure, and just nice.

But it could still use a maid.