Home is where the hard is

It’s been a long and draining day.

You’ve had to deal with more on your plate than you need, mostly due to the excessive number of morons on your plate.

Time, energy, and effort have gone towards activities that amount to little more than stroking egos and reassuring precious souls, until the next time someone chooses to be upset over something that exhibits the gross futility of “I had it first” or, worse, “You have it and I want it because you have it!”

Disputes over something seemingly insignificant as not wanting the colour blue drag on for hours, there are tears and tantrums, and all you want to do is get lunch over and done with and get onto the stuff that is going to be of actual benefit.

There are inexplicable upsets, the needs to calm and comfort, name calling, and tears.

When we have these days, wherever it be – the workplace, the school committee, mother’s group … you name it – that thought that pops into our heads is “I just want to get home”.

Home, in these moments, is where we are most want to be. It is where we can don our pyjamas and whip off the bra and no one cares. Or they do, but you don’t care that they care, because they’re family and you love them and the idea that you’re traumatising them for life as you floomp about the house in your stressed-wear is irrelevant.

Because you love them and care about them and that trumps everything else.

Home, so the saying goes, is where the heart is.

Then we get home.

Front door to a house that is inset with windows in a configuration that makes it look like it is screaming sadly

All our wants, desires, and expectations of being welcomed into the bosom which we call home are shattered like your best and biggest wine glass that slips from your grasp and onto the tiled floor.

You’d sit amongst the shards and cry, but you know if you don’t clean it now, it’ll never get cleaned.

Because home is where the heart is also means it is where the hard is.

It is where you are surrounded by those you love and whom you love right back. It is a place of comfort and safety and … oh, yeah, the futility of tantrums over the colour green, and the need for you to focus your energy on calming and comforting, reassuring and reminding … over and over and over again …

Why must it be this way?!

I just want a nice glass of wine in an pre-shattered glass, a hug or seven, the opportunity to vent and have people smile, nod, massage my feet and not try to fix anything nor offer advice, and to just … not be frustrated.

Alas, the safety and comfort of ones home is both a blessing and a curse.

Also, the fact that there are multiple others in the same household, whom also feel safe and comfortable in the same home mean that they all converge under the same room after their day – good, bad, or indifferent – with their own set of expectations about how it will be when they get home.

Familiarity doesn’t breed contempt.

Well. It does breed contempt. I probs should have said that it doesn’t just breed contempt.

It also breeds a safe place, a welcoming arm-open, and the invitation to let one’s frustrations, fears, joys, and jubilations out. Often in a complete non-syncronicity (is that a word? It is now) with everyone else in the household.

Thus, your bad day is likely to clash with the equally, if not more horrible day than another family member.

Or their bad is significantly minor, but they’re feeling unloved and invalidated, just as you are.

Or one of you is that the utterly frustrated end whilst another is at the jovially jubilant end.

None of these combinations can come to any good.

But on the upside, at least home is comfortable and safe enough to be where the hard is and everyone is relatively okay, right?

RIGHT?!



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