(This is the first of two posts today, one much more light hearted than the other.)

Good lord, my kids are Bostonians! Obviously, this should not come as a surprise to me, but it hit me this week while we were riding the T (our subway) together. M sat staring off into space, C stood next to me holding the railing and swaying with the train. The train rolled on and emerged from a tunnel and they both, almost simultaneously, said “next stop is ours!” Mind you, they had been coming in to work with me all week and so had seen more of the T than usual, but still, they were right.

As background, I should point out that I am an Army brat, so the idea of a hometown has always been something of an anathema to me. Boston is now my hometown by default, but the question of ‘where are you from’ still gives me pause. Growing up I would spend summers in Boston with my mom (if we were close enough to come) and we would ride the T to the Science Museum or shopping at Filene’s Basement (always a highlight). But, it never felt like home to me. It was something alien, a strange thing in a strange town. So, something like C knowing that the Blue Line goes to the airport without me telling him came as a shock.

My kids know the difference between West Roxbury and Roslindale (a local thing), are both Sox fans (and have seen them win 2 World Series) and, God help us, the accents. I pride myself on not having a Boston accent. It slips in here and there (and even K drops her R’s now and again), but more often than not, people think I’m Canadian (apparently growing up in 11 different places equates to a Canadian sound?). Their teachers are mainly Bostonians and we knew it would creep it’s way in, but it has grabbed a firm hold on their vocabulary. It doesn’t help that both their names end in R and that none of their friends or teachers pronounce them.

More than knowing the geography, saying “wicked” a lot and dropping their R’s, they have a home town. They’re Bostonians. When people ask them where they’re from, they don’t hesitate, they just know. We have a house that C has been in since he was a baby and M has always lived in (and is a house which has always belonged to my family). The idea of moving is equated with losing everything they know, friends, surroundings, home. This is new for K (a Marine brat) and I and takes some getting used to.

But, the image of M sitting on that train, completely at ease as the Boston skyline rolled behind him will stick with me for quite some time.