Visiting

I visit my parents, who live nearby, usually for no longer than three nights. I do do it for longer, most recently in June and last Christmas, and I always find around day four that I remember why I only visit for three nights. Sometime past that 72 hour mark, things start to get less pleasant. I don't know if it's because we all take off our delightful faces at seeing one another, or we're just not that good at living so close or .. something. All I know is that if I leave after three days, I go away wishing we had more time, and feeling fondly and nostalgic towards them. And if I stay longer, I wish I'd left earlier.

I don't know why I thought it would be any different with The Man's family. We see them less often, living a whole province and plane ride away, so I thought that longer would be ok. We haven't been back in a year and a half! It will be fine to spend almost a week away!

Ha ha ha.

It's not that they are not nice people. They are. I love my parents to bits, and they still drive me crazy. And I don't, with The Man's family, have the long history and level of comfort that comes with that history, so it should come as no surprise that three days with his parents left me desperate for some time alone, and three days with his sister (whom I adore) has left me wishing for the comforts of home.

There are a million reasons for this, a million little things that drive me crazy, which I won't illuminate nor do I need to ... but in the end, I'm just glad that tomorrow, I'll be waking up in my own bed.