Being home means that I can hear the Sea World fireworks out our window right now. 9:55, on every summer night. Being home means that Max walks around the house yelling "Buh-buh (Baubee)" and "Where Zay(dee) go?" He looks for them around every corner, and can't wait to run to them every morning when we wake up. Being home means that I let Max walk into the bay and toss seashells, because it's beautiful there, and we can. Shhh...locals know it's contaminated and nasty, but you can't stop a toddler who is yelling "Splash! Splash!"
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