I am homesick.

For my little bitty apartment, on Sesame Street. The one with not enough plugs in the kitchen, or counter space. The one where the windows didn’t always work quite right, and the screen door was falling off it’s hinges.

You know the one. The one where my son grew up. Where he ran around a big looping figure 8 around the chair, did his Yo-Gabba dance (a galloping, thigh slapping dance) the first time. The place where Brian, Ray and I were invincible. A family.

Safe. Together.

I called over there today, asked what a 2 bedroom would cost. I know that a 1 bedroom would be just a little bit too small for the 3 of us now.

But I want to go home. I don’t know how I’ll do it. I don’t know how… because almost all my money is going to daycare and gas. But I’ll find a way.

I told Brian tonight, on the phone, that I want to go back. That I need to go back home to sesame street. There’s no back yard for Ray to play in, but the rent’s do-able if Brian starts working fairly quickly, and it’s central to bus lines and stores and parks and all sorts of stuff.

I want to go home.

I want to go home.

I want to go home.

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