Where the heart should be

I am looking for a home. Or, first, rather it will be a place but I'm hoping as time goes by that it will be a home and that the kids will know it as such. Of course, I don't have 5k a month to spend on rent (or $800 for that matter, but who's counting) so "home" will have to be pretty simple and probably small. When I was growing up we lived in an apartment for awhile, and I never felt not at home there, so hopefully the kids will have the same experience.
If not, I'll tell them to be glad we're not in a shelter. At least for now. Sounds harsh, but it'll keep them quiet and maybe thinking about people other than themselves.
So, in the search for home, I've been thinking about what home actually means. Many of my friends either hated home or prefer rootlessness. "Home" has become a series of rental spaces where you're lucky if you get a place for a year, and even luckier if you like your roommate. I've had homes like these. Once, I lived in place for such a short period of time, I didn't even bother to put in a shower curtain. That's spartan living. But, I hope, those days are over.
I know home to be the place where you have a favorite coffee mug that no one else uses. It is the place where you know exactly what's in the pantry at all times. Also, it is the place where your shoulders drop, your smile lightens (or vanishes) and those who greet you expect nothing but to love you.
That said, my mom and I sat outside in plastic lawn chairs with our pant legs rolled up and a cup of coffee. We watched the kids try to kill each other with Badminton rackets and my mom turns to me and says in a heavy voice, "I could go to sleep right now. Wouldn't even have to try."