Saturday afternoon we threw a birthday party for Mari at our new home. Which is actually my old childhood home, where I lived from ages 2-10. The weather was perfect, and lots of great fun friends attended. We cooked some good yummy food and one friend even brought a real gaucho grill and another a moon bounce for the kids. At the new location, there is more yard space for kids to roam and play. It is an improvement over the non-yard that we had at our little townhouse.
I had a moment to reflect; looking out at the group of friends partying, thinking about how I used to play in the trees behind the house and run around on the same deck. But the moment didn't bring me any comfort or security in knowing that I could carry on the tradition of my family with my own kids. Instead, I though, "Really? Really? After all this time I'm back here?" It felt like a lack of progress. Like I haven't made anything special or different of myself for my kids. When I told Mari about it he said he understood. Which was a huge surprise because I was totally expecting him to say that I'm crazy for not having a stronger sense of attachment to family history and legacy or something profoundly brainiac and not empathetic. Knowing that he understands makes the feeling all that more powerful.
No action yet... just something I noticed. Don't want to move again for at least another year!
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