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Alison Konrad

New to the Atlanta Hipster Mom scene as of June 2006, Alison Konrad is a Mom's Mom, Mom-About-Town kind of gal with an arsenal of diving-in-head-first experience in navigating the sometimes complicated World of Motherhood, and the trials and tribulations of juggling the identities of being a working...

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HOME

It's not just a four letter word...

“Home,” he said as the car pulled into the driveway.My 18-month old son has been verbally peppering my husband and I with random words over the last couple of months. Most of them are hysterical first-word choices, but it was this particular four letter word that made me hit the brakes.

As easy as it is to grasp that he understood where he was, it was mind-boggling for me to hear.My son was HOME.He knows he is HOME.He has been a back-seat driver pulling into the same drive-way at the same hour every evening Monday through Friday since he was 12 weeks old—it should come as no surprise that he would recognize the place, right?Then again, he was facing backwards in the car-seat for the first 20 lbs of his life, so he really never had a clear visual until about six months ago.I guess that is all it takes to remember what your house looks like…where all roads lead to… where the heart is…For the rest of the evening I thought about this miraculous (then again, not really) word of the day.What does “home” mean to him, I wondered?

Of course, my uber-must-understand-all-of-the-boy’s-thought-processes mothering brain couldn’t let it go without further contemplation—What does “home” mean to me?

“Home” was where I would tell my friends that I had to go when I was a kid, whenever my Dad would stand on the front porch and whistle—his beckon call had various meanings that didn't matter as much as showing a little hustle when you heard the sound.

“Home” was a place that my mother toiled away at cleaning, cooking, decorating and carting us to and from, among a zillion otherselfless and loving things.

A “Home” is what my husband and I had to find—and quick—once we found out that I was pregnant!Our son was umm… a bit of a surprise?Ok, more like a total surprise.We were completely unprepared, literally caught with our pants down.  We were still living our fancy free we-are-so-cool-married-without-kids lifestyle in a loft where the walls didn’t even touch the ceiling—not conducive to living with our pending, crying, hungry baby.

“Home” is, 92% of the time, my post-birth response for where I can be found after 7pm.“Home—to finish the laundry.” “Home—to make dinner.” “Home—to clean the bathroom.”If a friend asks, “So, Alison, what are your plans for Friday night?”I answer, “Well, you know, I was thinking that I might go HOME, put the boy to bed, do some laundry, order take-out for the husband and  probably open some wine.

“Home” is where I wish I were in the middle of a long day at work, with my son curled up in my lap, flipping through his favorite book.

“Home” is where we tell our son that we are going when it’s time to leave the playground—not always a well received statement. Re-direct. Re-direct. Re-direct.“WHOA! Is that Elmo in our car?”

“Home” is where we brought our son after we left the hospital.

“Home” is where our son plays, doles out hugs and kisses, and empties the Tupperware drawer daily.

“Home” is where he sleeps.

And one day (hopefully not too soon), I will say to him—“You just WAIT ‘till your father gets HOME!”

I am humbled to know that my son knows when he is “home”.After all, there is no place like home.