Hi, Plane

I’m homesick. 

Does it count as homesick if you’ve been gone for fifteen years? If you’ve ever read this column you’ve probably gathered that I struggle with making California feel like home. (I realize I write about this a lot, but you’re just going to have to bear with me – this well runs deep, my friends.) My family is firmly settled in the Midwest and I’m the first to move this far away since our ancestors moved from Norway, looked around at the barren countryside and thought, “perfect.”

I’m forever grateful to Los Angeles – it’s given me my husband, my job, and my appreciation for a good pressed juice. But since our son, Arlo, was born more than a year ago, my homesickness has gotten worse. In some ways, I’m homesick on his behalf – grieving that he will never know the magic of a Midwest childhood. I often wonder if, by raising him in a big city, I’m ruining his life.

Does that seem overdramatic? That’s because it is. But that’s pretty typical of me as a mom. A few nights ago, we had to re-sleep train Arlo. (Yes, we sleep train, please don’t send me letters.) He’d been crying for a while and if felt like a million tiny knives in my heart. The last time I’d gone in, I kissed his cheeks and told him I loved him. Then I walked back to our bedroom, stood over my husband like some crazed ghost, and whispered, “His tears tasted like blood.”

So, yeah. I guess you could say I’m not the most chill mom. I spend a lot of time worrying about things like “Does my son feel at home in the city of his birth.” But I think what I’m really asking is, do I?

I don’t know how to relate to his childhood. How can I raise a kid in a city when I don’t know what it’s like to be a kid in a city? What’s the best school? (My town only had one!) What’s the best park? (My park was my backyard!) What’s the best place to live? (The farm, obviously!) If I were home, I’d understand how to give him the opportunities I never had. But here in LA, I don’t know how to manage all the opportunities he does have.

In January, Arlo and I went back to the Midwest to visit my parents. I had big plans to travel to my hometown and see our extended family, but the weather had other ideas as did Arlo’s double ear infection. So instead of watching my son forge an unbreakable bond with his cousins and understand on a deeper level why the Midwest is home, I was driving him to the doctor in a snowstorm.

We flew back to Los Angeles without ever seeing my extended family and my heart felt heavy. As we landed, I looked out at the expanse of lights covering the city and wondered if Arlo could feel at home here even if I didn’t?

When we got to our house, I set him down and he was off – toddling from room to room. At first, I thought he just needed to stretch his little legs, but then I noticed he was greeting everything in the house – saying hello to all the things he’d missed. “Hello highchair, hello bathtub. Hello cord I’m not supposed to touch. Hello giant tree. Hello wood blocks that Mom insisted on getting that I never play with. Hello crib. Hello home!”

Home. This is home to him. 

I wonder if this is how my immigrant ancestors felt about the babies who were born after they immigrated? It must have been strange to watch their children love a foreign place so fiercely while they still dreamt of the homeland. Because if I think back to the last few months of Arlo’s life, it’s clear to me that no matter my feelings, he does love it here. He loves the trees. He loves our local park. He loves the Mexican restaurant down the block. He loves our rental house with its weird doors and useless fireplace and creaky wood floors.

He even loves the local airport that I’ve always found loud and disruptive. But Arlo adores it – he greets every plane with a squeal and a wave and lately Jason and I have started to shout, “Hi, plane!”

Watching him experience this place as home has helped me to feel more at home here too. Because if the person I love most in the world loves it, then maybe there’s a lot to love. 

Yesterday I was walking to my car and a plane flew overhead, making the motor noise I used to find so annoying. This time, I looked up and whispered, “Hi, plane.”

This piece was originally published in The Forum of Fargo-Moorhead. You can find them and me here.