I woke up today acutely aware of the thousand plus miles that separate me from the town that served as the backdrop to my childhood. I greeted my husband with a very sarcastic "Happy Mardi Gras" at 7:30 this morning and proceeded to mope my way through my morning routine.
I'm by no means a party animal. My parents, having grown up in New Orleans, aren't very big fans of Mardi Gras. But there's something about carnival season that makes my soul sing a little.
The sound of the Shriners on their motorcycles signaling the parade is near, the friends and family gathering together, getting pelted in the head by projectile beads and doubloons, crawfish boils..
I took my grief over to Facebook this afternoon (after being pelted by snow and sleet outside today!) and posted this little ditty, only to promptly be put in my place by my wise little brother.
He's right. I AM at home. This is the place my children will feel the warm fuzzies for. I'm still coming to terms with that. But it's clear as day every time we make the return trip from Louisiana. Without fail, when we pull off at exit 97, the kids begin to cheer, "DuBois! We're home! We're home!"
And really, life in a small northern town? It isn't so bad.