When I moved into my first apartment I told my mom, "It's weird... I just think of your house as your house now, not as home."
She smiled and told me it was because I was so excited to have a place of my own.
Ryan and I got an apartment across town, and then later a condo about an hour away. I never really missed those other places. I mean, I missed the layout or I wished the bathtub was more like it had been in a different place, whatever, but I never missed it because it was home.
We moved into a Winnebago Brave, and then a travel trailer, and then a small appointment in another state. Nothing.
We had an apartment across the country, and then a townhouse in a different state. None of them gave me that deep sense of home most people seem to have.
Then we moved again and had to spend a few nights in a hotel due to logistics. Our boy started to whine for a snack and I told him, "We'll eat dinner as soon as Daddy gets home."
He went back to coloring and I nursed the baby, but all the while I couldn't stop thinking about that. The hotel room feels just as much like "home" to me as that 1973 Winnebago Brave or as the house I grew up in.
Isn't that strange?
People always asked me when we traveled if I ever got tired of not being home and I'd tell them, "No, that's what's so nice about the trailer. We just bring our home with us." It took me a while to realize that wasn't what they were talking about. They didn't mean the physical walls we lived within, they meant home.
When I am with my husband and children, I think that's when I feel like I'm home. I am home when we're in a plane or camping or browsing the library, just as long as we're all together.