Hellobee

Dear Baby Y,

In just a day or two, you’ll be waking up in a different room, in a different house, in a different city, in a different state. Because you’re usually a pretty easygoing guy, I think you’ll do fine with the transition.

In fact, I’m sure you’ll do so well that in matter of days, you’ll forget all about the cozy little house and the far-flung town where you spent the first 10.5 months of your life. In fact, when we tell you about this place when you’re older, you probably won’t believe half of what we say. So I’m writing you this note now, while the memories are still fresh.

I never thought I’d live in a tiny coal-mining town in Appalachia. You should have seen me when your dad first thought about taking a job here: I hopped on the computer to find the closest city, and I kept zooming out … and out … and out. And still, all I could see were the green ripples of the mountains.

One of the stunning views in our neck of the woods

It was a good opportunity for him to get into academia, though. And even though I already had a job I loved in a place I loved, I loved him more. Sometimes you make sacrifices for the people you love. You’ll figure that out when you’re older.

The first year was rough. For an Ohio girl who’s used to finding the horizon without much trouble, life in the hills and hollers was disconcerting. So was the lack of privacy. So were the stares we sometimes got when we’d go out for dinner. They silently reinforced what we already knew: “You aren’t from around here.”

But then things started looking up: We started forging some friendships that I hope will withstand the test of time. We bought this wonderful house and quickly made it our oasis. And best of all, we found out that you would be joining our family.

And what fun we had preparing for you. We got rid of our cozy little TV room upstairs to make room from your nursery, which we painted a bright aqua. I researched baby gear until my eyes bled. We made what seemed like endless trips to IKEA. And I drove nearly two hours to the city for each and every doctor’s appointment. Truth be told, that part wasn’t fun, but I wanted the best for you.

The moment we brought you over the threshold, this little mountain house became our little mountain home. Granted, you didn’t open your eyes long enough to appreciate it for a while. Eventually, though, you woke up, looked around, and seemed to approve. And you’ve conquered so many milestones here: rolling over, sitting up, crawling like a maniac. You’ve gone from a tiny, swaddled bundle to a happy-go-lucky pre-toddler who is always on the move.

You sure had a lot of fans here, too. We could barely set foot at work without someone scooping you up and shooing us away. Dinner at our friends’ restaurant almost certainly saw you whisked away to charm the other diners or hang out in the kitchen, leaving us a rare moment to eat without having to entertain you.

All in all, baby, it wasn’t a bad life.

Ultimately, though, we want things for you that we just can’t give you here. We want to be able to take you to parks, to museums, to the zoo. We want choices for all-important things like childcare, like schools. We want to keep you safe, and raise you where anything more serious than a paper cut won’t require a helicopter ride out of the mountains. We want to live where it won’t be a burden for family to come visit. We want you to have a wider view of the world than we can ever hope to give you here.

In other words, we want all the things for you that most people take for granted. They’re things we took for granted, too, until we moved here.

Maybe one day when you’re older, we’ll bring you back. We’ll show you our little house, and we’ll take you to campus, and you’ll see what little is left of the flood-ravaged town. I’ll tell you about how (much to your dad’s chagrin) I used to drive you all around the county, exploring the windy roads and the backwoods, marveling at the scenery while you took much-needed naps.

Accustomed as you’ll be to city life, you’ll probably be glad you were so small when we left. I don’t think I’ll be able to blame you, kiddo. We’ve certainly felt our share of frustrations here.

But I’ll also try to tell you about the friends we made here, and how some of our coworkers practically adopted you, and how your dad’s students would squeal and hold out their hands when they saw you. I’ll try to tell you how pretty the mountains could be in the fall, and how loud the frogs could get in our backyard as they sang us to sleep.

And if we’ve raised you right, maybe you’ll be quicker to realize what it has taken me a few years to understand: Home has so little to do with maps or bricks and mortar. It can be the most unlikely of places – as long as you’re with the people you love.

Home is wherever they are.