I missed my family today. I woke up with a big ache in my heart, wishing I were in Idaho at our family Christmas breakfast on paper plates (so the mandatory dishes-before-presents ritual could go lickety-split).
My husband's family distracted my homesick heart with hugs, laughs, warmth, special allergy-free foods, thoughtful gifts, good-natured wrapping paper wars and brainiac puzzles.
When we got home this evening, I called my parents, who had missed me just as much as I missed them, and we whined for half an hour about being so far away from each other.
By and by my three guys and I settled into our evening.
My husband and my eldest son sat intensely on the edges of a couple of couch cushions, conquering worlds from a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.
My baby son crouched happily near the couch, repeatedly bashing two toy dinosaurs into each other and making the manliest battle noises of all time.
And I found myself nestled into a corner of my couch, squinting at an enormous pile of legos expectantly awaiting their transformation at my hands into a massive, flesh-eating lobster.
At that moment, I realized something.
Jeff's family is incredibly warm and loving.
And my heart still aches over missing my parents.
But the loud crash of my son's plastic toys, the hum of my warriors' light sabers, and the threat of a giant family lobster is exactly my favorite place to be in the whole wide world.
Here, with my boys, I am perfectly content.