Mr. Wolfe was just plain mistaken. He said, "You can't go home again." But my children do. Often. All five are over 21, married and some with kids of their own. I go to their houses. They come home. It is a blessing. It is a curse. I am honestly grateful to God that they love us and also like us. They choose to hang with us. It's a good thing. It is also not unlikely to come home from an errand and find that the leftovers that were earmarked for supper for my husband are gone along with the last of the ice cream, my last pair of clean sport socks, my lasangna pan, my husbands 3/8 drive socket set  and a tube of mascara. More unsettling perhaps is waking up to a little romance only to have a daughter shuffle out to the kitchen an hour later. She and her husband had shared an early morning ride into town to save on gas. She'd used that extra key that we all have for emergencies, gone back to her old room and gone to sleep. Yeah....they come home!

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