THE KIDS ARE HOME

Welcome to
THE KIDS ARE HOME

You may be a grown adult, but as soon as you step into the threshold, you're a child once again.

It feels different in here. But at the same time, nothing has changed. Your mother emerges from the kitchen. You've never seen her more thrilled to see you. She's typically not the overly-affectionate type, but distance works overtime on empty-nesters. You have become so accustommed to hosting dinner parties yourself, you forget your mother's way of doing things. You observe the subtle similarities and differences you each have in the kitchen. It's quite fascinating. There's yelling and chasing. Everytime the chaos enters the kitchen mom yells. We are all above the age of 20. Why do we still act like this? It's the same place and silverware and cups you've used your entire life. The players on the table haven't changed, but the particapants of the meal have. Whilst the metal, cermaic, and glass sat in the cupboard we were out breaking up, making up, getting laid off, getting hired, learning, growing, stumbling, washing, risning, and repeating. You all do a lot of laughing around this pre-historic dining table. Mom continually gets up, regardless of our protests. We have casual conversation with eachother. Slowly defrosting in eachother's presence. We skim the surface of small talk as if we haven't seen the deepest places on one another. As we eat, this verbal routine continues.

However, there's a moment where things shift. It's now dark outside, the lights in the other houses surrounding have gone out. Mom hasn't gotten up in at least 10 minutes. No one has reached for food or drink in a while. Our forks sit idly on our plates. Our general posture has changed: some recline, some place their elbows on the table, some rest their arm over the chair next to them. The first brave soul begins to share the real stuff. As if holding up a white flag, surrendering their pride and privacy. But, what if this moment of vulnerabilty isn't a white flag at all, but rather a war cry? What if this is the moment where we fight for eachother? Where we are invited into eachother's deepest battles? So, we do that very thing. We talk about the hard stuff. How we ACTUALLY are. You carry on that way for a long while.

You look up once again at your mom once again. There's a sense of pride in her eyes. The kids whom she once protected from all of the despair of real life are now freely discussing their individual dances with despair. It's quite powerful.

Notes from "The Kids Are Home"

ARTIFACTS OF

           this thing has                our christmas gift to mom                                               every home has one                    generations of utensils
         seen so many meals                                                                                  
                                                                              grandma's old apron