Why is my stomach in knots as my husband pulls into the gas station 2 miles from home? We face forward, in our own thoughts, until he says, “We’re almost home.”
I grab his hand as I respond, “I know.” The tears are so close to leaking.
I fear the silence will engulf me, wrapping my body like a vice, not the hug of home.
My nose will remind me of the last time we returned, kids in tow, to the strange smell of home, one that quickly becomes unnoticeable, but is always noticeable after a few days away. How will that scent change over time, without teen spirit?
He pulls out of the gas station and takes the road we have taken so many times before. We are a mile away, a half mile, making the turn off the main road, onto our street. Into the driveway.
My stomach clenches as it does before I go onstage or give a presentation. No matter how confident I am, there is always the unknown, captured in more than butterflies and less than wanting to puke.
We are home.
And I’m officially “dome.”
It’s familiar, comforting, and not nearly as empty as I thought it would be. My fears recede, my stomach relaxes, and I work on the task at hand – unloading the car – and NOT worrying about cleaning up the mess. That will be a task for another day.
Today, I rest. “I’m dome.” I’m home.
Note: This cut-out was part of a graduation pack that I purchased for the party for my twins. It became a running joke over the summer as I finished each aspect of Phase I Parenting (the way I’m now referring to the last 18 years). It is currently on my dresser mirror, and I think it’s finally true. I’m dome, at least with that journey.
Filling Time: TwinLife Empty-Nesting 
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