Plans are solidifying for a house full this Christmas. I am more than grateful to be the one staying put, while our kids book flights, and navigate long lines during the darkest week of the year. But there are tasks for me as well, between clearing the clutter from corners, decorating, and thinking about meals. 

We are not as compact as we once were. On a camping trip to Yosemite in the nineties, we squished into a large tent, and in transport, a seven seater van. My responsibilities were broader then, having packed ten items for each child for every day.... shirt, pants, socks, undies, sweater, jammies, and shoes. If anyone's feet were cold, the blame fell to me. But if they were cozy when their eyes drooped shut after an afternoon of hiking, the joy was mine, too. 

But now they are all responsible for their own belongings, and travel plans. Our collective bodies will necessitate three cars for any jaunts to a restaurant, or bowling alley. It remains to be solved where they will all sleep. 

What amazes me is that they are choosing to come home at all. For people who hop on planes as often as I put gas in my car, this is astonishing. It is not because our decor rivals that of a hotel in New York, or an Airbnb in the Poconos. Neither is it because my cooking is comparable to their favorite eateries. There will be packages under the tree for them, but I daresay those surprises have less pull than they once did. 

They know each other well enough to remember that there will be a few bruised toes, and a wait for the bathroom. But maybe the gravity that tugs their hearts comes from the surety that they are loved.