I live here. This is home.

I live here. This is home. My clothes are upstairs, waiting to be put away, next to my clothes waiting to be washed, in a little, tiny room, my room. There is junk on the floor, and cribs, and highchairs and bottles everywhere. There is food on the counters, and children eating, and grown ups cooking more food, and more people eating. I live here. This is home.

There are teenagers fighting with their mothers, and mothers fighting with grown children, who will ALWAYS be children in their mother’s eyes. There are 10 and 12 year old little girls who think they are teenagers, who fight with their brothers who are happy to fight back. There are babies that cry, and an endless supply of arms to pick them up, endless voices to comfort and sing softly. There are endless feet to walk around the junk, and step on spilled potato chips. There is a shortage of hands willing to pick up said junk and chips. I live here. This is home.

There are men hiding in undisclosed parts of the house. Looking for quiet, never finding it, but able to block the chaos out. There are women, yelling at the men, angry that, without the necessary y chromosome, they are genetically unable to block chaos. I live here. This is home.

There is drama unfolding at an alarming pace. Drama similar to dramas recently played in this house, with a different cast. There are many voices warning of the dangers and pitfalls, and ears tuning out warnings, drowning them out while they listen to their heart. There is danger in that, and there are arms and comforting voices on standby. There are people waiting, to watch sad movies, and listen to sad music, and eat mountains of Ben and Jerrys, when needed. There is love, always love. I live here. This is home.

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