Especially when you aren’t feeling well. We were at the Whitworths’ for Thanksgiving last night, where the entire family plus several friends put the count at 12 people. Normally, that’s a fine number for Simon: enough to keep him stimulated without overwhelming him. But last night, Simon wasn’t his normal self, and the whole thing was just too much for him.
He hung on pretty well, but at 7:00 p.m. he was tired, didn’t feel well, and wanted to go home. I know this because at 7:00 p.m. he took my hand, said “walk,” walked me to the front door, looked out it wistfully, then turned to me and said, “home.” It was a poignant moment, made more so by the fact that he normally cries when we leave his grandparents’ house and by the fact that he’s never said “home” before.
His usual word is “house.” As in, “house” for his play house in the back yard and “Mommy house” or “Daddy house” for the house we all live in. I think we’ve heard “Bubbie house” before, too. So he clearly understands what a house is. And last night, he let me know in unmistakable terms that he understands the difference between “house” and “home.” There may be lots of the former, but there is only one of the latter, and it’s where he wanted to be.
Learning the distinction between house and home *almost* makes his feeling ill worthwhile.