Jailed

As I sit and listen to the happy squeals from my kids in the backyard, loving their game of "Jail" with Gramps, I wonder how it has come to this. How am I sitting on a fluffy bed with my beloved husband on the other side of the country? How did we come to agree what is best for our family is to be separated two months out of a year? While I admit being back in my home state rejuvenates me like nothing else, I have to reflect on the obvious: is this the best choice for all involved? In so many ways, I still feel stuck- a prisoner in my own life.

Certainly Marc is alone and, well, lonely in the 4,000 square feet around him back in the inferno. The kids and I are cozy and loving our accommodations here where someone cooks and cleans and caters to our needs. Is this a fair shake? Of course I can justify anything when I think of the "sacrifice" of living ten months over there. Admittedly, Florida feels less and less of an out-of-body experience and more of a deliberate act of endurance. But I never like anything that was not my choice by design and I never like to be told no, therefore, how could I possibly have liked our move from the start?

I ran with the old group here on Sunday. We traced the hills of San Dieguito with our feet, up and down the rolling hills along the golf course. I am pleased to report that I was freezing in 54 degree temps. Some people simply never change, and I think I prefer that to those who have left their spouses and moved on from their jobs. I guess I really don't like change, and yet, with only one life to live, how can we possibly remain stagnant and do the same thing forever? Do I really want to move back to CA so desperately? Not so much when I go out with a realtor and look at houses-it is difficult to assign a value to four walls of grotesque old architecture. How can people really ask for -and get- the numbers they are for what is included? The price of living in Paradise has really not dropped that much. Of course, when I watch my son swim here under the watchful eye of his dad's old swim mates, I think I would do whatever it takes to get back home again. My heart could burst with pride, I am so happy to watch them coach my kids- the cycle starts over again. Just like the kids I used to babysit are now watching my own kids-where did the time really go?

The time I am most homesick is around Halloween when I long for the air that has turned cool and school is back in full swing and fall is all around. Then I am homesick at Christmastime when I long for the mountains and hot chocolate of Julian and caroling with neighbors. Then sometimes I am homesick when I think of all the variety there is here with regard to EVERYTHING (running routes, gyms, swim team, restaurants, parks and recreation) and I feel as though we have nothing on the other coast. But do I really want to move home, the paragon for the good life? Does it have to be here?

Sometimes I think no. I think what purpose would it serve us to run home? We have moved on and settled in and recreated a life that is ours. We have made great friends, and found a new routine and locked the kids into sports and classes and buddies. We can't simply fall back into what used to be our lives. I grieved that loss a long, long, long, long time, but now I think I am looking to what comes next. With only one life to live, why not live as much and as many places as possible? Why not dream the dream of the acreage in Oregon with an apple orchard and horses for the kids? Why not consider the possibility of doing something totally different and off the wall- unexpected. I am a California girl to the core. Every fiber in me lives and breathes the Pacific, but somewhere in there discontent has gotten hold of my heart and it is struggling to make a name for itself. Discontent wants to evolve into Great Expectations and make something bigger happen.

I am applying for Grad school finally. It has taken me this long, but here I stand at the crossroads. Our kids are getting older and more independent, some days so much so that it breaks my heart. At her last swim meet, Owen asked me why I was sad.

"Mom, are you sad because I am getting bigger all the time?"

"No, lovely, I am sad because you have almost closed in on my swim interval."

Their shrieking continues outside. Poor Gramps- chasing them and dragging them back to "Jail", the relentless "Judge". My kids never tire of this game, running back and forth under the eves of the house, their little bare feet slapping along the bricks where the birds have scattered their mess of seed from the feeders above. All the while, the dogs chasing the kids, never ceasing to be just at their heels-they seem to wear smiles, too. Then they all come inside and the Goldens collapse under the table, where the little people drop crumbs of after dinner delights. These are the memories my kids will grow up with, as mere visitors to California, not the residents I always wanted- assumed- they would be. Just as I was a traveler to New York and Michigan when I visited my grandparents every summer, my own kids will be transversing the States to see family each year. I am not sure how that makes me feel anymore. A prisoner to another state? A slave to our current economy, locked into a promising job that feeds our family?

Jailbreak. My time is up.