My Regular Home

Lucia has handled this move with surprising aplomb so far. She was mellow and fun during the move; thought all the craziness and mess was funny; and really just went along with things with nary a complaint. (Much of this is due, of course, to the fact that my parents’ sole job was to entertain both girls nonstop for an entire week. They excelled at their task.)

But now that Grandma and Pop-Pop have left, and Andrew has gone back to work, and it’s just us here in this strange new home, Lucia has moments of homesickness. Sometimes it strikes when we’re doing something she enjoys, like painting rocks; sometimes it’s when we’re playing; sometimes it’s when we’re reading books or doing some other quiet thing. “I want to go home,” she’ll say suddenly. “We are home,” I say. “This is our new house.” “No,” she’ll say. “I want to go home—my regular home.”

It is so sad. I tell her that I miss it too, and that it’s hard to say goodbye and move to a new place, but soon we’ll love our new house just as much as the old one. I really don’t know how to explain it all to her. Our home in Park Slope is the only home she knows. Now we’re telling her that this new place is home—without any of our friends around, and our stuff in unusual places. It must be so confusing. I know that, eventually, this house will edge out the old apartment and become the home she loves; but I still get the feeling that she’s just waiting for a vacation to come to an end.