A New Hospitality

Well friends, Merry Christmas to you all from my living room, which, perhaps looks much like your living room: a temporary orgy of crumpled gift wrap, mangled bows, vacated boxes – and way too many of those obnoxious gray twisty ties that hold every toy hostage. Damn those earnest elves! Despite the mess, it’s pretty great, really – this kind of a morning. Comfortably full of chocolate croissants and Gingerbread coffee, I don’t have anywhere to be. The boys are downstairs giggling their pants off; they are, it seems, torturing the cat with their new spy gear: a remote controlled hummer with a pair of video glasses. Henry is getting some much-needed rest in his crib, all red-cheeked against the sheets, his adorable diapered behind parked in the air. Chad has also settled in for a winter’s nap, although not with his butt in the air. (but what a great image – a full-grown man, asleep with his butt in the air). Will Ferrell could totally pull this off, by the way). Anyhow, with my own butt parked here on the sofa, I have the unusual luxury of silly thoughts about Will Ferrell, and the option of gazing out the window all afternoon, watching squirrels strip the persimmon tree bare. The Christmas sun shines in and Ella Fitzgerald sings, “…What do I care how much it may storm; I’ve got my love to keep me warm…” I find myself “burning with love” on this fine morning, indeed.

So, just as I’m sinking further into my Christmas bliss, it occurs to me that sooner or later, I’ll have to get up, straighten the house and season the Prime Rib (I’ve already decided it will be later rather than sooner); we have family coming for dinner this evening. I know five o’clock will come all too soon, but I’m not all amped up and wigged out, as in years past. In fact, I have good news for myself: Self! We are learning a new kind of hospitality.

I don’t know about you all, but I’ve mostly known hospitality to be as such: before the guests arrive, you whip around the house in an enormous panic, barking orders at family members to do this, pick up that, right this minute, saying things you later regret; you work up a terrible sweat, as you perform at least three of the seventeen tasks on your mind simultaneously, shining mirrors, fluffing couch pillows, scrubbing baseboards on all fours, touching up wall paint, and hiding avalanching laundry baskets and any other piled-up things in the garage…and you keep all this craziness up to the very last second when the doorbell rings – because you are convinced you must. That is, you are convinced you need to eradicate every last Christmas crumb before visitors step foot in the house. You are, it seems, working to erase every shred of evidence that there are, in fact, real human beings living in your home, seven days a week – five of them, no less (four of whom are male, three under the age of eight, and one, a banana-smearing, cracker-crumbling, toothbrush-napping twenty month old who thinks yogurt is finger paint). Have you ever had a banana smeared into your sofa upholstery? How ‘bout a trail of toothbrushes winding through your house?

Anyway, recently, taking the aforementioned reality into account, I asked myself a most basic question about the flurry and frenzy that accompanies preparing for guests: why? Why this absurd effort toward presenting a life I don’t even live? Why work so furiously to disguise a reality that most folk are familiar with anyway? I mean, who doesn’t know about socks under the sofa or hairs that cling stubbornly to the bathroom sink? Who doesn’t have dust bunnies under the bed or a collection of strange and unidentifiable crumbs in the silverware drawer? How about a mysterious lagoon of syrupy substances on the refrigerator shelf? (At this point, I can only hope you are all nodding your heads yes). If you aren’t, well – hurray for lucky you!

Someday, way, way into the future (like when my sweet little birdies have flown the nesty) I might have sparkly countertops and windows you could use for mirrors (and I do fantasize about this – I mean, who am I kidding, a clean house just feels awesome); but in the meantime, I plan to give myself a monumental break. I suppose if I wanted, I could go on torturing myself (and the entire family) in the hours before guests arrive, in an effort to get my life looking neat and tidy. But here’s the thing: we’ve already established my life is not neat and tidy. So, isn’t the presentation of a pristine house, at this point in my life, an outright façade? I mean, surely anyone who has raised kids, knows there is no such thing as a tidy life. Why bother trying to fool anyone? Which leads me to the most important of my conclusions about hospitality: Not only do I expect my guests will forgive me for a less-than-spotless home, but I have come to believe that an immaculate house is not even necessarily the most welcoming. It’s true!

Listen, I enjoy the aesthetic of shiny countertops and smelly candles as much as the next person, but when I am a guest in a spotless house, (especially fellow parents) part of me is thinking, why the hell can’t I keep my house this clean? I feel I am often left to marvel at the hostess and her superhuman capabilities – which is why I have made it a practice to disclose all whenever my house is uncharacteristically clean and receives a compliment. A few parties ago, a fellow mom and her four little destroyers were here, and she commented, Wow! How do you do it? How do you keep your house so clean and organized? I should take lessons from you. I laughed – loudly. Lessons? Oh no, there are no lessons here – unless, of course, you want the lesson of how to fool your guests by hiring a babysitter to take your kids to the park, while you and your significant other scrub the house from top to bottom the day before a party; I can teach you that one.

Stay with me, friends, because here’s where it gets really good. I happen to love it when I visit someone’s house and they have dried-up pasta in their stove burners or a ring of residue in their bathroom sink. I rejoice when I find pennies, Goldfish and underwear between somebody’s sofa cushions; or my all-time favorite – days old marinara sauce splattered in the microwave. Why do I love this? Because these are all clues that I am visiting fellow human beings, that we’re all very much the same: we have hardly any time to clean our houses, and a dozen other priorities besides (add an extra dozen for each child you’re raising, and another dozen or two for your career). It gets even better. Recently, I attended an elaborate party with trays of Martha Stewart hors d’oeuvres, monogrammed, linen cocktail napkins, and whatnot; it was hosted by a lovely family with two sons. So I’m off visiting the loo at this party, and I discover the most liberating secret ever: lingering beneath the scent of an Ocean Breezes Glade deodorizer, my experienced nose detected the pervasive smell of urine! Glory Hallelujah! Let me tell you how at home I felt! I left the bathroom comforted with the knowledge that it’s not just me fighting the smell of urine in the world; that I’m not the only one with little boys who whiz everywhere but the toilet bowl, marking their territory in the toilet joints, the caulking around the base of the toilet (which is positively brown now), the walls, and astoundingly, even the folds of the shower curtain.

According to Dictionary.com, the definition of hospitality is this: the friendly reception and treatment of guests or strangers. Wow…how very odd…they seem to have left out the part about cleaning your house like a maniac before people arrive. I’ll be straight though: this is a fairly new kind of hospitality for me, one of considering, how a guest feels when they are in my home, rather than what kind of life I have on display for them. And I don’t have it all down yet (if I told you I did, I’d be a very bad blog hostess, indeed). But I am working hard at it, because I truly believe if we are ever going to let people into our lives, our real lives, the ones we actually live, we’ll have to let go of our impossible standards and settle for a bit more visibility. Wouldn’t we rather be known for who are, in the end, than admired for who we aren’t?

Why are we so afraid of allowing people to see us, complete with our imperfections? Isn’t every one of our lives imperfect? We’re masters of appearance in this culture, but we are, none of us, living perfect lives, no matter how polished they might appear. And I ask you this: who wants a perfect host anyway? Or even a perfect friend? Maybe the truth is, we’re all just a little worried we’ll be judged for the dust on our bookshelves or the cobwebs in the corners of our ceilings. I say, let them judge! The good news is, most people won’t judge; but the ones who do, will do so whether we’ve polished the kitchen floor with our own sweat or left things to rot on every square inch of it (and perhaps it will be because their standards for themselves are too high). So let’s change the world, one house at a time, by lowering our own standards first! Isn’t it kind of exciting?

I’m sure later today, I’ll do a once-over on the bathroom, and we’ll recycle some boxes and wrapping paper (so my grandparents can cross the floor without spraining an ankle); but we’re not getting out the feather duster or even the vacuum cleaner. No. For the time being, we’re going to sink further into our Christmas bliss. In fact, I think I’ll wrap myself in this blanket on the sofa and have myself a snooze. Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a half-clean night!