What's a G6?

Yesterday, my mom took me to Wal-Mart. (To be honest, I was quite excited about the trip. Wal-Mart! Now this is rural America.) As I typically do, I hopped in the car, turned the radio to a random hip-hop station and, upon realizing that this song is amazingly, also my favorite song, I spin the dial, causing the five cars surrounding us to also hear "Like a G6." Hands in the air, holding the beat in my shoulders, I was completely immersed in the world of my music. As the song reaches its repetitious maximum (because honestly, how many times can she say slizzard before I get bored?) and I return the volume to a non-damaging level, my mother looks at me, sincerely curious, and asks, "What's a G6?"

And with that, I smile and remember why I love being home. I love my mother. I love that she never grows tired of my antics (or at least hides her distaste well). I love that, regardless if I'm home for a weekend or a week, my mother will buy me soy milk — and then cook me breakfast every morning so I never have a chance to use it. I love that she always has an update on the dogs, informing me of their eating habits, the growth of their hair, their sleeping patterns.

I even love that every time we hop in the car and drive by the neighbor's house, she will tell me that she does not understand why they have a tennis court (No one is ever on it, she insists. She thinks she should come over and ask to play since no one ever uses that tennis court).

As much as I may mock her for stories, I love my mother and all of who she is. I love that she always wants to share her life with me, mindless details about the neighbors and all. And I wouldn't trade her — or her stories — for the world. She's my mom and I love her.

"It's a plane, Mom. A private jet."

"Oh." She smiles. "That's what I thought, but I didn't know."

And with that, we drive on to the land of cheap things made in China, just my mom and I and some awful rap music on empty Indiana roads.  This is what it means to be home.