Going home

I live about seven hours away from my hometown, but I sometimes fret over it like it's a million miles away. And there’s a special joy in packing to go home: I pack my newest clothes just to stop my mum’s mad dash to the store to pick up new clothes for me; I bake for my brother-in-law who is a one-man cheering squad when it comes to my cooking skills; and pretty much carry everything I can squeeze into three or four fair sized airbags and trolley suitcases for a week long stay.

At first the reception back home was just as enthusiastic. My mum and sister would let out a thrilled squeak and embrace me with kisses. My father though has always been the same: he would smile stiffly and help me in with my bags. Once inside, the heavenly smell of food I haven’t toiled over fogs part of my senses.

If I've mentioned already how much children change our lives, I must now lay emphasis on how much your world changes with them. The welcoming crew has changed its tactic a bit. Of course, there’s that reassuring squeak, but I realise after a while that I’m not in anybody’s arms. The two of them are busy fussing over my daughter. Oh they acknowledge me alright – an excited nod as they run inside with her. May I mention my daughter now has that same satisfied look on her face that was once mine?

So I turn to pay the cab driver, but there’s still one thing about the picture that hasn't changed a bit: my dad’s still waiting by my side to help pay for the cab and walk me in with my bulging bags. And once inside, did I mention the smell of heavenly food?