Coming home as a guest: visiting my mum and dad 

My favourite bit of coming home* is the half an hour after you’ve arrived and you’re halfway down a cup of tea (made for you!) and you’re midway through showing off your children and all the new endearing/clever/funny things they can say or do. Second to that is the supper (made for you!) after you’ve finally got your over-excited children to bed. We are all usually two gins and a Master Brew down and feeling sentimental or, esp if big sis is there, gobby.

Anyway, part of a trip home is to try and recreate your own (edited highlights of) childhood memories with your own children: bonfires and welly boots.

The boys and I couldn’t be happier.

Mum, my boys, my childhood home and a bonfire. Bliss

*why is ‘home’ always the one you’re not at?

Hmm. That sounds like I’m trying to be massively profound. Absolutely not. What I meant was ‘I’m going home to mum and dad’s’ but also ‘I’m on my way home from mum and dad’s’.

 

EDIT: Reading your book while your dad has to watch Paw Patrol. Win!

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