Going Home

Whoever said you can't go home again probably meant to say you shouldn't go home again (I'll let you know at the end of the next four years!) Never the less, here we are. I have returned to my childhood home, planning to spend the next four years living with my 75 year old parents, my disabled 19 year old daughter, and Mr. Big, one very spoiled high-maintenance toy poodle. We arrived from Virginia with our politically incorrect Suburban packed to the ceiling in hot pink rubbermaid boxes. My son returned to UVA the day we left with one suitcase and 5 pairs of shoes. We left Richmond with 5 LARGE plastic storage boxes, 7 suitcases, 3 LL Bean bags, 14 purses and a total of 173 pairs of shoes. It seemed logical to me. My husband pretended to be mournful as we left, but we all knew he was secretly counting the days until he had the house to himself. We did leave him the two big dogs in the process and 10 pumpkins that were ripening on the vine. I don't have much hope for the pumpkins survival, but am optimistic about the dogs.