Home, Away from Home?

Pardon the narrative tone, I've been watching a lot of Grey's Anatomy on DVD since getting rid of cable...
When we are kids, we look at what our parents have and make one of two decisions: 1) we want the exact same life when we grow up or 2) we want something different (better?).
In the first scenario, we are comfortable with our surroundings. We like the life our parent(s) have established for us, and we want the same someday. People live healthy, happy lives following in mom or dad's footsteps.
The second choice involves a bit more of a balancing act. With change, comes instability. With success, comes some guilt. With distance from family members, comes a longing to have them near.
And as much as I want to say that I fall into the second category, there are days when I find myself living a life just like my parents.
Sure, now they live in the hometown where they met and fell in love in high school, but they traveled the country for 16 years of their young adult lives. It wasn't until they felt that their family was finally complete, and that their own parents needed a bit more attention, that they bought the big white house with black shutters and about 100 oak trees. It would take a few more years before they added the two car garage, and gave in to having two dogs, a deck and hardwood floors. As much as they wanted a life different, and maybe more exciting, than the one in which they grew up, home never left their hearts.
So people can pat me on the back, and say that it is so admirable that I moved all this way, and that now I am living alone (with Goldie, of course), and that in a few months I will taking on single motherhood so far from my family. They can make it sound like I am my own woman, with thoughts and dreams beyond what my parents envisioned.
But aren't I just doing exactly what my parents did? Aren't I just trying my best to meet people, and make friends, and challenge myself a little more each day? Yes, I love that the cashier at Target speaks to me in English, but speaks to the person behind me in Spanish (not so in MC). But I also miss warm June nights on the pier, when couples walk hand-in-hand not saying anything at all, and waves push gently against the cement. I love (can not stress this enough) that today was Feb 3, and I walked outside in a tank top and flip-flops and was neither hot nor cold. But somedays I wish I could see a yard covered in snow, and my Dad starting my car for me so the ice would melt before I had to leave for school. I like that there are any number of friends that I could call or see any time of the day here. But I miss my Mom.
The point is that whether our own childhood is one we want to remember or forget, there is a part of us that never lets it go. It either comforts us, or propels us to never revisit it again.
I want my daughter to dream bigger than I ever have, and go places I never will. But I also hope that my life is enough of an influence that someday she will look out her window in New York, or Paris, or Kalamazoo, and say "I miss my mom." Because I know I'll be missing her...