Holy cow, how am I supposed to even begin? My family is, quite simply, the most important thing in my life. Take away all of my stuff, eliminate television and music and art and flowers and mountains and coffee and cookies. My family beats it all.
I credit my military upbringing with this sentiment. I never had friends when we moved somewhere new. We had generic rental furniture in standard issue housing until our household goods arrived. I lived in a country foreign to me in language and culture. I spent at least half of my birthdays in the company of my parents and brothers.
Even after I moved away from home, that firm belief in the importance of family stuck and applies to my new little crew. Blood relatives and friends who’ve worked their way to blood status are, without a doubt, the peanut butter to my jelly.
Now that I have a baby, I so understand the “it takes a village to raise a child” adage. While I’m sure we could manage to raise the J-man on our own, the village approach is a lot easier (and more fun!). Several of my relatives came to visit for Jackson’s baptism last weekend. We did what we do best – spent long hours on the porch gathered around food and laughed.
Someone was always there to hold the baby (or if I snatched him for myself, they were there to make him laugh), to share stories about when my brothers and cousins and I were babies, and to dispense the communal knowledge and wisdom that comes from years of parenting. This is where I feel at home – not in a certain city or house or season, but in the company of family.
