This isn't the post I was going to write.
The post I was going to write was about our recent trip to Uluru (or, more famously known as the culturally insensitive name Ayers Rock). Instead, I find myself home alone, sick, making chicken noodle soup and listening to a song my cousin wrote.
And I start thinking about family.
My mind always goes to family when I'm feeling a little homesick. And then I start thinking about what 'family' really means. Because when I think about my family, it's not necessarily the blood relatives I think of. Hell, I don't even speak to half of them.
Instead, when I think of family I think of two of my dearest friends who are 'family' by coincidence of name. Two thirteen year olds with the same last name, strangers to each other yet destined to become life long friends. His girlfriend, now wife, one of my three bridesmaids and their daughter my flower girl. They are more family to me than I can explain.
I think of The Fella, who I'm about to marry and take his last name (the topic of which is a whole other post waiting to happen).
I think of my sister, who's my adopted older half-sister from my biological father's first marriage, and whom I didn't grow up with. Her mother is her biological mother but my biological father legally adopted her and was married to her mother for over then years. I can tell that she, too, has a complicated relationship with the term 'family', as she often says "we're not really sisters, but we're sisters", or "they're you're real family, not mine" (to me). To me, she's my sister. End of story.
I think of my cat. Yes, my cat Winston is part of my family. In fact, he's part of my very inner-most circle.
I think of my dad. Not my biological father, but my real dad. The man who was my mother's partner for over twenty years and who helped raise me through that oh-so-difficult teenaged era. The man who would be walking me down the isle at my wedding if he were alive.
I think of him a lot these days.
And I think of my real dad's family. They're who I think of most; who I miss most. My step-brothers, whom I love more than they know. Their (my) large, chaotic family who I grew up with, spent holidays with, and 'fit in' best with (or least? aren't family dynamics a fascinating thing?). To me, they're home. They're comfort and familiarity and strength.
My song-writing cousin is part of this family. It's no secret that we're close, close friends as well as cousins, and that we get each other in ways the rest of the family doesn't. When I think of our family gatherings I think of sitting in a basement with the boy cousins around (I was the oldest girl) and two of them singing and playing the guitar. Always playing the guitar.
It's home to me. It's family. And I miss them.
Tell me, dear readers, how do you define family?
The post I was going to write was about our recent trip to Uluru (or, more famously known as the culturally insensitive name Ayers Rock). Instead, I find myself home alone, sick, making chicken noodle soup and listening to a song my cousin wrote.
And I start thinking about family.
My mind always goes to family when I'm feeling a little homesick. And then I start thinking about what 'family' really means. Because when I think about my family, it's not necessarily the blood relatives I think of. Hell, I don't even speak to half of them.
Instead, when I think of family I think of two of my dearest friends who are 'family' by coincidence of name. Two thirteen year olds with the same last name, strangers to each other yet destined to become life long friends. His girlfriend, now wife, one of my three bridesmaids and their daughter my flower girl. They are more family to me than I can explain.
I think of The Fella, who I'm about to marry and take his last name (the topic of which is a whole other post waiting to happen).
I think of my sister, who's my adopted older half-sister from my biological father's first marriage, and whom I didn't grow up with. Her mother is her biological mother but my biological father legally adopted her and was married to her mother for over then years. I can tell that she, too, has a complicated relationship with the term 'family', as she often says "we're not really sisters, but we're sisters", or "they're you're real family, not mine" (to me). To me, she's my sister. End of story.
I think of my cat. Yes, my cat Winston is part of my family. In fact, he's part of my very inner-most circle.
I think of my dad. Not my biological father, but my real dad. The man who was my mother's partner for over twenty years and who helped raise me through that oh-so-difficult teenaged era. The man who would be walking me down the isle at my wedding if he were alive.
I think of him a lot these days.
And I think of my real dad's family. They're who I think of most; who I miss most. My step-brothers, whom I love more than they know. Their (my) large, chaotic family who I grew up with, spent holidays with, and 'fit in' best with (or least? aren't family dynamics a fascinating thing?). To me, they're home. They're comfort and familiarity and strength.
My song-writing cousin is part of this family. It's no secret that we're close, close friends as well as cousins, and that we get each other in ways the rest of the family doesn't. When I think of our family gatherings I think of sitting in a basement with the boy cousins around (I was the oldest girl) and two of them singing and playing the guitar. Always playing the guitar.
It's home to me. It's family. And I miss them.
Tell me, dear readers, how do you define family?
You have a family by blood, but you're right - you have an even bigger family that you choose. The kind of friends that make you feel like home.
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