Some Simon & Garfunkel Song (April, Part I)

April happened. April really happened. So much happened in April that it's difficult to know where to begin, but let me begin, as ever, with this simple fact:

My mother is a BAMF. My mother rocks. She rocks so much that to say she rocks has become some sort of hellish understatement. She rocked herself all the way to Kansas, got a rockin' job with a rockin' salary, and rocked on back home. Or, "home." For those of you who didn't pick up on this before, my post on home in late February stemmed from my dawning awareness that the place I'd called home for twenty three years (roughly; there was a time I couldn't talk) might not even be my parent's home for much longer. It's interesting. I am proud of my mom, obviously, and excited for my dad, who is all set for his "third stage in life" (his words), which could be anything from starting a consulting business to doing more of what he does now, from straight up retirement to guiding inner city youth through the woods on birdwatching expeditions.

I am also (after almost four months of thinking about it) at peace with the idea of my home belonging to another family. As I explained first to my high school friends and then again, tearfully (bourbon was involved, but more on that later), to my dad and then finally to my mom, while that house belongs to us, nowhere else will ever be home to me. Chicago feels temporary. This apartment feels temporary. This gig (thank God) feels temporary. Only one of those things needs to be true. While that house belongs to us, I probably won't try to put roots down anywhere else, and it's rough, because I don't see myself moving back home. If I did that, I would be disappointing myself, my friends, and probably my parents. So I know it's not going to happen, but it's difficult to resist the siren call of my bed and my bookshelves and my back porch and my kitchen.

My parent's back porch. My parent's kitchen.

 So it's good they're selling the house because I need to cut the cord. I don't want to live in Kansas. (For one thing, it's a red state.) I probably will never live in Kansas. I may visit Kansas, but I can't see myself there.

As I was working through all this, I had a conversation with a good friend of mine from high school. She's a grad student in the Chicago area and we meet biweekly for brunch at Café My Spirit Animal (not its real name). Over the course of our discussion, we came to the simultaneous (and possibly belated, but whatever) realization that no one was making decisions for us any more. Another friend, this one from middle school, chipped in with the corollary over cupcakes: we don't always factor in our parents' decisions any more. None of this is earth crushing, none of this is unique to us, and all of this is as it should be, but they were two very interesting conversations.

So it's time to take charge, time to start thinking of my next steps in terms of where they may lead. As one of my favorite former coworkers would say, "Imma need for you to get it together." I'm trying, dude, I'm trying.