We had all eaten a nutritious lunch in the school cafeteria (I resisted blowing bubbles in my milk) and had returned to the classroom for a public school-approved celebration of "holiday traditions."

In turn, each of the 4- and 5-year-old kids in my youngest son's pre-K and kindergarten class stood up to share the tradition that makes their holidays special.

We learned about all sorts of cultures. The festival of lights in India, Christmas in Nigeria, New Year's Day in Jamaica. We sang "Feliz Navidad" and "Jingle Bells" with two little girls who started school without a word of English.

We saw handcrafted Advent calendars and heard about a family that keeps a running journal of each year's exploits.

At one point, my husband turned to me and whispered, "I feel like I'm in a Coca-Cola Christmas commercial." It was that heartwarming.

The last kid to share was Franklin, our 4-year-old. I had helped him make a poster featuring all of our Christmas routines. The gingerbread houses, the visit to Santa, the slice of cheese next to the cookies on Santa's goodie plate.

But standing there in front of all those parents perched on miniature chairs, Franklin got nervous.

"We go to Waffle House!" he blurted.

Everyone fell out laughing.

But Franklin was telling the truth.

Every year, on the morning after Christmas, the boys and I head to Waffle House for a decadent, syrup-laden meal accompanied by grits -- lots of grits -- on the side.

My oldest son likes to give me grief that, as enduring Christmas traditions go, this is a pretty pathetic one.

I always tell him to stick a stocking in it.

But it certainly isn't the tradition I grew up with in Wisconsin.

I've thought about that over the last week, reading the paper's "homesick" series with interest.

In a place where 20-year transplants such as me are still considered newcomers, it's understandable that people yearn for something that makes them feel truly at home.

Funny thing is, I don't.

Oh, sure, there are some things I wish I could transplant from Wisconsin. Chiefly my family.

There's the annual Sheehan Christmas party, where the mood rises and falls with the fortunes of the Green Bay Packers, where Santa drinks scotch and the whole crew sings carols off-key.

There are the food specialties: my uncle's pigs in a blanket; tiger meat sandwiches; bowls of cheese curds.

And there is my parents' Christmas tree, decked out in ornaments my siblings and I made 40 (or in their case, 50) years ago.

But these days I've got my own set of cock-eyed Santas and glittery globes from 12 years of my own parenting. I've got five unusual stockings. And a goofy display of snow globes.

We've got our own way of doing almost everything related to this and every holiday. Despite my middle-schooler's mocking, we do have our own traditions.

It didn't take two decades in North Carolina to realize that home is where the heart is.

Mine is here.

Merry Christmas.

(See you at the Waffle House.)