Coming back home

I love talking to my 4-year-old. He seems to have such great questions. “What is a country? Can a diesel train go faster than a race car? Can a zebra run faster than a horse? Can you tell me about the dinosaurs and the big rock? What is ‘relative to’?”

And then there are the observations. Deep, wise ones. Or just obvious, pertinent ones. Sometimes a pesky “Mamma, I need to tell you something” is a precursor to a surprisingly lucid and succinct statement. There is a wisdom that comes from simplicity and innocence. It makes me wonder if life is about learning and then just unlearning all the things we pile on. To come back to the core if it.

Here is an observation about “Coming back home” he made the other day.

We had been traveling for 3 weeks. We had seen volcanoes and beaches, looked for snakes and capuchin monkeys, taken mangrove tours and night hikes. We had spent time with family, feasted and partied. On our way back, the swirling euphoria of the past days seemed to be settling down into a slow mellow feeling. I wanted to be home more than anything. I wanted to see the mess in the kitchen, the toys strewn in the toy room. I wanted to take a nice long shower in the bathroom and sleep on my bed.
I asked my 4-year-old offered if he was excited about coming back home. This is what he had to offer, “I love coming home after a long time, like many many days, because the comforter in my room is cold – and I like it like that.”

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