A sinking feeling

I certainly should not be writing. I should definitely be washing the dishes piled up next to my sink. My brand-new, eighth-wonder-of-the-world, working faucet and everything sink. After struggling to choose a faucet, we sort of closed our eyes and clicked "buy" just to have something out of which to get water. Turns out, it's the perfect shape and color for the kitchen. I guess you can't lose them all.
Even though I'm having a love affair washing dishes at waist level instead of sitting on my toilet and bending over the bathtub - and there are plenty to wash - I couldn't resist sitting down for a little typing. The afternoon sun was shimmering in from the west, and I needed to grab a little before it fades through the neighbors' many tree limbs.
To go with the new sink, we have all new working appliances save a dishwasher. That's on the way, but the repairman is a little overwhelmed with yard chores at the moment (I can see him through our picture window fertilizing the lawn - hope he doesn't see me eating a snack!). It's been raining plenty in Jackson, and the lawn just drinks it down. I'd be lying if I said I weren't disappointed that landscaping will have to wait one more year, but at the very least we have to trim the grass.
Our recent completion of several important projects in the kitchen seemed like the perfect way to make things more homey around here, but that instant, comfortable recognition of home still escapes me. I don't really feel it at my parents anymore, either. Of course I love visiting them, and I still know where my mom likes to hide the potato chips, but it's not quite the same. Do you ever get it back, that feeling of a safe landing after a long trip?
It's really not Jackson's fault, nor our home's, that this anxious fluttering in my bones is always afoot. With lots of recent trips for parties, weddings, showers and Menards essentials, the Jackson exit on I-90 is synonymous with "Why don't we have any clean laundry?" and "There is no breakfast food in our house." Arriving back in town is like grabbing the baton for the second sprint around the track. In much the same way, coming in the front door means remembering I still have to paint one strip of red near the ceiling, our bedroom looks like an unfinished garage and there is a LOT of trim to do.
And yet, there's got to be some way to cohabitate with this unending to-do list. Everyone else does it, as far as I know. What's the secret? I'd love to come home again.