For as long as I can remember I've had itchy feet. I just can't seem to stay in one place for very long. For this, I completely blame my dad. He is a home builder by trade and as a child he would build a house, move us in, then sell the house and move us into a rental. Then he'd build another one and start the vicious circle all over again. He built entire subdivisions over the years and I think I lived in every house on the block.

I have never, ever lived in one home for more than a few years.

This constant moving has stayed the same in my grown-up years. Since moving out 11 years ago I've lived in 9 cities, 6 states, and 2 countries.

Though in many ways this has been exciting, I've also lost any sense of home. My life is packed away into boxes, always intending to be unpacked, but never settled before its time to move again.

In the five years I've been with my wife, her parent's house has become my home. No, I've never truly lived there, but it has become all of those things I think of when I think of home - stability, warmth, and comfort.

When my wife (then girlfriend) spent one summer in Montreal and our relationship, along with my career and life, were up in the air, I spent a few days in that little house in Palmyra. It was there I felt like things might be ok. It was there I found some sense of myself.

It was there again that I sat last Saturday night watching Ben-Hur. And though the kids at work will continue to roll their eyes and laugh at me, and I know I'll never make the society pages, I've come to realize that it is there that I belong.