Home.

I often make jokes about Minnesota, the state in which my husband was raised and we currently live. Truthfully, I find it to be an odd place. People generally keep to themselves, casseroles are called "hotdish," and they pronounce "aunt" "ahnt" and "bag" "baeg." But I come from a state full of loud-mouthed people, corrupt politicians, and hot dogs served without ketchup, so I don't know that I have much room to talk.

Moving to Minnesota 12 years ago was not my choice. Staying here was. By the time my parents made the decision to move back to Illinois, I was gainfully (?) employed and in love with a Minnesota boy (we were 22 and 23, so "boy" seems appropriate). Leaving Nate wasn't even a question; I think we both knew we'd end up married long before we'd even said "I love you." I was here to stay.

Not without a little bitterness, of course. No matter how much I loved Nate, how many terrific friends I made, or how many excellent restaurants we had access to, I was homesick. Terribly. Minnesota could never compare to my beloved Chicago. I missed my loud-mouthed family and friends, Vienna Beef, and folks who could pronounce words correctly. (The corrupt politicians, not so much.)

Over time, the ache in my heart has dulled a bit. While still lonesome for my family and my first home, I have found happiness here. And though Nate and I have talked, at length, about moving to Illinois someday, I know it will never happen. I won't let it. I've left everyone I know behind to make a life in a new state, and it's horribly difficult. I would never put Nate through that. His family, his friends, his entire life is here. And now, 12 years in, much of mine is, too. I have a stable job, a beautiful house, a family of my own, and extended family I hold dear. Not to mention a number of friends with whom we have developed solid, life-long relationships. People who I believe will play an integral role in our lives and the lives of our kids.

The other day, as I drove back into St. Paul after spending time with friends, I was struck by the beauty of the city skyline. While it doesn't hold the same awestruck wonder for me that the Chicago skyline does, it's beautiful all the same. And, after many years, I can finally say it's home.

My past is in Chicago; my family and my roots are in Illinois. But my present and my future are not. My heart, my home, is here — in Minnesota.

My home is with my husband, who likes lefsa and keeps to himself unless I force things out of him. With my little boy, who will likely say "baeg" but will always know the right way to dress a hot dog. And with the tiny one growing inside me, who I hope will inherit just a touch of this mama's Chicago-style loudmouthedness along with his/her daddy's reverence for hotdish.

Minnesota is certainly not where I expected — or wanted — to be, but there's no doubt in my mind it's where I belong.