Duck, Duck, Gray Duck

My daughter won't play Duck, Duck, Gray Duck (nope, I did not mean Duck, Duck, Goose). She won't appreciate Target and 3M in the way that I do. She won't call that place where you park cars on multiple floors a "parking ramp." She won't experience the thrill of thunderstorms and tornadoes. She won't (thank goodness) eat "hot dish" or (again, thank goodness) have to endure endless winters.

If these statements make any sense to you, then you and I are from the same state.

I'm trying to come to terms with raising my daughter in a state that often feels like a foreign country to me in contrast to my roots. Funny thing is, my (OK, I'll say it) Minnesota roots aren't really roots at all: my parents both grew up on the East coast. They didn't sound like everyone else. We weren't Lutheran (in fact, my father is an Episcopal priest). We weren't Scandinavian. Our last name didn't end in "-son."

In many ways, I felt like an outcast and didn't even know there was such a thing as hot dish until I moved out of state as a young adult (I had eaten it in various forms at potlucks I suppose, but didn't know of this generic label). But now, after nearly 15 years away, my sense of belonging there is startlingly strong.

At the same time, I can't imagine a life different from the one we live. My work is exceptionally fulfilling (most of the time), not to mention that I have fantastic benefits. Sure, I often wish that I were the one staying at home with our daughter ... but that's getting a bit off topic.

What I can imagine is not living in the urban grit of the city; as much as I enjoy many aspects of city living, it's starting to wear me down: the traffic, fires (we've had two major fires in the houses surrounding us; one just a few weeks ago and one a few years ago), the shootings (yes, we've had a number of those uncomfortably close to where we live), the smell of urine, the sounds of sirens racing by along with the deafening roar of noise-enhanced motorcycles ...

So we're working on relocating to another part of the city, preferably to a neighborhood with a greater sense of safety and community -- and a thriving soul -- characteristics that mark the neighborhood in which I grew up but that I didn't appreciate fully until I had a child of my own.

We've considered moving back to that very neighborhood with its tree-lined streets (now less dramatic, however, after a Dutch Elm disease epidemic years ago), my life-long friends, family, and safe schools. But something is keeping us here -- and, while I could blame my husband for this, the truth is that this city we now live in claimed me long ago during a visit when I was 12 and lured me back 15 years later.

What I've come to realize is that I'm capable of feeling a sense of belonging in more than one place -- and that no place feels "just right," in the words of Goldilocks. In many ways, the slight edge I feel here keeps me focused on continual self-improvement; I've always worried that going "home" would cause me to regress, whereas staying here promises professional and personal opportunity.

I think I can be at peace with the goose.