When Alison Hodgson wrote for my guest series, “Home: Musings and Memories”, she talked of the fateful night when an arsonist entered her garage and set her house on fire. “Who, when making a home, imagines it could ever be a ruins?” When Joe Dudeck wrote of home, he described the experience of several failed adoptions: “While standing at the doorway of parenthood, we discovered the welcome mat would again be pulled out from under us.” In another post, Aubrey Sampson wrote to remember her father’s job loss and their family’s move from a beloved house: “There was no willow tree, no roller-rink, not even one hot air balloon in the yard.”
Audrey walks toward me, her canvas bag swinging at her ankles and her backpack visibly heavy. The twins have wrestled and giggled wildly for the hour we’ve waited outside as the older three finish their swimming lessons.
I squeeze her, and she gives her perfunctory, “Oh mom, please” look.
“You’ve got to talk to my teacher.” Swimming teacher, she means, and yes, I’m shamefully absent when all the other dutiful parents pick up their children and wait for the instructors’ feedback.