Taking Back Home

Home is a sitcom that I watch on repeat.

I spend half of my childhood imagining myself as the third-born on Full House. No, not Michelle. She is fourth, or maybe fourth and fifth, if both Mary Kate and Ashley get their own billing.

I share a room with Stephanie- I don't mind being in the middle. I'll take any last scrap of Danny or Uncle Jesse or Joey's attention.

I am shocked those times the girls are bitter that one of their devoted "dads" can't attend a performance or when they are angry when one goes on a date. I would not be embarassed for them to show up and bust my date with the school's "bad boy" if they heard he might be a predator.

I would say thank you for protecting me, because no one ever has.

When the pandemic comes for our social lives and our normalcy, I turn back to sitcoms, skipping movies almost entirely for a year.

I only want to spend time with people I can see over and over again. These people have always been the most stable family I have known.

I never understood my relationship with sitcoms until now.

I take up residence with The Tanners, especially in the late 1980s. When I was lost out there and all alone, they were there. Also, sometimes the Seavers, Taylors, Keatons. I am hit hard when the Huxtables are revealed to be just like my own family; Hiding their secrets in plain sight though so many knew. And someone always knows.

Home is #familygoals, which I suspect others say as a joke, but I catalogue it as a list of plans for how I will spend my future. A collection of moments so special that happy couples with precocious children can’t help but brag.

The internet is not a grounds for comparison, it is a majestic field of possibility. Proof of life, though sometimes a harsh, slap-in-the-face reminder of the ways mine has been unacceptable.

I scroll past an elderly couple who stand on a boogie board in the gutter pretending to "surf" during a storm to the tune of beachy music.

There is a woman on TikTik who films herself pretending to fall asleep on her bed to see what her husband does and captures him putting a blanket over her and praying for her well-being.

I click on the heart and I wish I had stories like these to fill mine.

Home is saying no to what was put on my plate. Once labeled a "picky eater" I live my adult life with the same discernment.

Beloved, it's okay to scoot the peas and mushrooms to the side of your plate, for those are not an acquired taste, but one that can sometimes feel offensive. And it's okay to say no to things that feel offensive.

It's okay to scrape the abusive people onto a napkin to make room for things that nourish your life.

Home is a social construct and not ever having what I deem to be one is something I made up in my head, even if my sad reaction is reinforced. But any social construct that I can visualize is something that I can have, so I look to this four-letter word with inspiration.

I take back this offensive swear, detaching it from descriptions of holidays ending in tears and narcissists who manage to suck up all the air in a room.

I hang this four-letter word in my mind, a tacky Target sign, painted on wood- too cliche for my future h-o-m-e. Then again, I can hang anything I want there. In this place we will "Live, Laugh, and Love." and everything else cliche and mushy that can be painted on a sign.