Turns Out, You CAN Go Home Again. (If You Clean It.)

On Thursday afternoon, I flew home to spend time with my folks for a wicked long weekend. I wanted to poke my Dad until he laughed during his fifth round of chemo (which is a medically and historically proven way to get smacked upside the head) and berate my mother into Feng Shui-ing the heck out of her living areas.

So yeah, you could say I was a big ol' helper.

Here are a few things I realized (and reaffirmed) about my parents and our family's home:

-If you're looking for duffel bags, Rest Of World, you're out of luck. Super sorry. But you can't have any. Because we have them all. In one closet.

-The worse the Mystery Science Theatre 3000 episode, the better (according to my father and the level of evoked laughter). Unless you're my mother. Then it's directly proportional to the times she will walk through the room and plaintively ask- Really? This episode again?

-If you're looking for CDs, vinyl, recordable media and filmed anything, Rest Of World, you're out of luck. Because my Dad has them all. In one closet. But now they're alphabetized and sorted by height.

-The plethora of decorated and drawn angels people have been sending from all around the world for my Dad's treatment and recovery could paper our home. No, for real. Rooms are papered with these pieces of awesome.

A corner of the family room.
ONE corner of ONE room.

-And any trip home (especially one sans kiddos) goes entirely too fast.

(Get better soon, Dad, or I'll be forced to fly home again and move even more of your stuff.)