Trashed House, Healthy Home?

My house is trashed. Constantly. Legos, cars, and other random toys are regularly strewn about the house. The remains of dinner for like ten people in the kitchen. Floors with food droppings from happy children who left an hour ago.

My house is the play-date house.

Short play-dates where the kids just play for an hour. More often, long play-dates where the parents socialize and grill or make pizzas and the kids play for hours. Play-dates where we go swimming, watch football or movies, play Wii, whatever. Play-dates the mamas look forward to.
At the end of each, my house is trashed. And the moms and dads help me clean up as much as they can, then leave with gratitude in their eyes when I usher them out so they can get their kids to bed on time.

I wouldn’t trade that role for anything in the world.

Yeah, it means I need to clean the floors more, pick up more toys, stack and unstuck the dishwasher, clean the kitchen counters, and cook more. But because of it I know my kid’s friends. Well. What they like to eat and play with. What triggers a hug or a tantrum. How to love them, discipline them, amuse them.

I know their moms and their dads. Well. What they do. What they go through in their everyday lives. How to make them feel welcome, laugh, leave full in stomach and heart.

And I lovingly and gratefully clean up the mess. (Not that the other parents don’t help – they always do but you know…there’s always debris.)

Often, people tell me I’m out of my mind. When they do, I smile a secret smile. And I think of my mother.

Growing up, I was one of those kids who could go either way. I ended up being a pretty good kid. I got decent (not great) grades, mostly stayed out of trouble, and loved my family immensely. And for this I give credit to my mother (I’ll get to you later, dad). And to the fact that our home was always “get together” central for my friends and me.

Who am I kidding? My house was Grand Central. Kids were there all of the time. We lived Costa Rica and back then (yes, I’m old) some had cable and others didn’t. We had cable, a VCR, and a zillion movies. And charming personalities, of course. Oh, and then there was my mother’s food. The woman baked and cooked and baked and cooked. And did I mention she’d bake and cook? Pizza sandwiches, cookies, cheesecake, pupusas, rice & beans, huevos rancheros. My mom was baker, short-order cook.

Importantly, she was also a friend.

My mom got to know each and every one of my friends. And she was smart about it – casual, friendly. She even taught the cutest 17-year-old boy on the block how to bake bread. (To this day he’s “el panadero.”) And along the way, she extricated every bit of information possible out of him and others. She listened, read body language, eavesdropped – everything. Eventually, the kids started proactively telling my mother who to watch out for – who the bad influencers were. And it was based upon that information – plus her own personal observations – that she decided who I could spend time with outside of the house.

It was amazing. The most innocent-looking girl with the parents who were missionaries? I was rarely allowed to go anywhere alone with her, because she was “out of control boy-crazy.” (She really was.) Then there was any boy who looked at yours truly in any way that my “older brothers” (el panadero and his buds) deemed inappropriate. Nope. No time alone with Jennifer.

Yeah, there were moments when my mom’s decisions infuriated me. But in retrospect – she was dead on. She made good decisions based on personal knowledge. And in retrospect I salute her for holding strong on those decisions.

Like my house, her house was trashed. Constantly. But as a result, her HOME never was.

So I’d like to keep my house trashed, thankyouverymuch. Just keep your paws off my home.