There's No Place Like Home

Previously published in Coastal Illustrated Feb. 22, 2012

               Something is in the air. 

               And given the thick build up of frost on my windshield the other morning, it sure isn't spring.

               It all started a few weeks ago when our marsh cat, Otis a.k.a "Fatticus Rex" or simply, "Fatty," as we call him, finally achieved what he has been trying to do since we adopted him: escape.

               Now, I'm not sure if it's the dog who drags him around by his ear, sharing a litter box with Mirage, a.k.a “Scabby,” or the call of the wild, but as soon as the front door opens, he's out like a shot- or more like a furry, fuzzy, 90 lb ball of pent up frustration.

               Usually, we chase him.  This is probably poor parenting, because he really kind of gets a kick out of the five of us, including the dog, making weird sounds and throwing treats at him while crawling around on all fours next to the air conditioning unit.

               This last time, though, out of desperation, oh and a 7 p.m. dinner reservation, we let him fend for himself.

               As if I wasn't feeling bad enough about leaving the "little" guy out in the cold, I get a text on the way to the restaurant from one of my daughters at home with our sitter, Ali.

               "Mommy where is Otis??"

               Two seconds later.

               "Mommy where is OTIS!!!!!!!"

               And then to drive her point home, she followed up with 10 emoticons in varying states of distress.

               Here's what I texted back: "He ran outside. Bring food to porch, shake bag, and pour into bowl.  He will come."

               Sure enough, all it took was for her to open the door.  To say Fatty knows where his Fancy Feast is buttered is an understatement. 

               So, to my surprise, not two days had gone by and a similar situation unfolded right by the very same front door.  Only this time, it involved one of our two-legged creatures who, up until now, I couldn't pry off my legs, back, arms and feet.

               "So where are you going to go? You don't even have a pair of shoes on let alone enough money to get something to eat," I say to one of my daughters as she grabs for the door handle.

               Now, I am not sure what got her in such a state to run away with only a grocery bag filled with glow sticks and a pocket-sized flashlight to guide her.  Was it the dog she was supposed to help wash, Fatty and Scabby's litter box that was to be cleaned, or was it a call from her sister from the other room saying only babies watch Scooby Do? 

              

               I couldn't be sure because she blew past me, a whirling 90 lb dervish of clear lip gloss, green apple scented shampoo, and truck load of Claire accessories. I didn't go after her.  She’ll come back.

               I guess I just assumed she just wanted to get out of the house for awhile.

               Don't we all?  I took one look at my laundry pile and dirty dishes stacked in and around the sink and silently prayed for a divine intervention, or a spa trip...... whichever came first?  Beggars can't be chooser, you know.

               What is it about this time of year when we'd rather be any place but where we

are?

               Is it cabin fever, a lack of proper sunlight, or a meaningful holiday?  How come it seems we have reached a breaking point where we are all getting on each other's ever last nerve?

               Why do we want to run away and come back when everything is warm, and flowery, and candy-colored pink?

               My daughter didn't stay out in the cul-de-sac long.  I don't know if it was because she was cold or because I opened the door and silently held out a Little Debbie Zebra Cake and a DVD of Miss Congeniality 2.  But in she came.

               We popped in our movie, had a snack, and folded laundry.  

               And we thought of spring and all its possibilities.....cart wheeling through sprinklers in our bathing suits, skipping barefoot in thick, green grass singing to butterflies, sitting cross-legged in the warm sand building a castle fit-sort of- for royalty, planting bulbs in rich, dark dirt and watching them bloom, rocking on the porch with a good book and a cold drink, glancing up every once and awhile and saying a silent prayer because we are here and alive and beautiful, in our own right, every single one of us.......and all of a sudden we felt a bit calmer.

               Spring will come. It always does.

              Like the pull of the heart to the place where it's anchored, it won't take long to show back up, knocking on our front porch, asking to come in. And as we always do, we will open our door and, thankfully, let it all in.