Little things mean a lot

Evan doesn't appear to remember what color our house was in the States. "I think it might be pink," he replied with a funny quizzical look on his face when I asked him about it the other day. Ditto our old car, which is causing him similar amounts of confusion. "It was definitely white, I think," he says of the vehicle which inspired him to scream "blue car" each and every time we entered our garage or approached it in a parking lot. Despite all of this American amnesia, his memory is as sharp as ever when it comes to our British domicile. He'll rattle off our street address unprompted to virtually anyone he meets and appears to be making a hobby of learning the post codes for all of the neighborhoods we frequent.

I noticed this morning on the way to school a certain confidence in Julia's step that I've not been aware of up until now. (Yes, these two paragraphs are related. Bear with me.) She was skipping along, swinging her reading folder and chattering away about her upcoming day. She seemed happy and comfortable and entirely in her element. A posh London private school which bears little resemblance to her friendly and nurturing American preschool? No problem. She couldn't wait to get there. She belongs there now.

Upon further reflection, I must also add that I have not turned my key the wrong way when locking my door for at least a week or two now. And I've given two people directions in the past few days without having to consult my A to Z first. And two different friends called me this morning to make some plans and just chat a bit.

Do you think it's possible that this place is starting to be home?