The face I have after a week in Kalamazoo on the road to Austin

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It’s not always easy to go home. My parents have been as welcoming as anyone could be to a mother of four who’s in between cities. I’ve enjoyed the Bell’s local brews, worked a couple days at the Water Street coffee house, played at the Kalamazoo Valley Museum (possibly one of the best childrens museums east of the Mississippi putting all boroughs’ children’s museums to shame, in my humble opinion), sipped ice tea on the patio, scratched a dozen mosquito bites after a night run with my dad, dashed through sprinklers, weeded the garden, staked the tomatoes, slept to the crickets, slurped palazzolo’s sorbetto, run around in the dry fountain at Bronson park, checked out library books…and still I’m ready to push on and push out. There’s something about coming home that’s welcoming and slightly suffocating no matter how old you are or how cool your parents might be.

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