When my parents, in-laws, and grandparents were here last weekend for graduation, my dad asked if we went to other people’s houses twice as often as we had people over here. Bart and I agreed that it was probably more like ten times as often as we have people over to our house.
Nearly all of our friends have children so the vast majority of our activities take place at other locations, where toys and games and large backyards with trampolines and swing sets are plentiful or where kids can go to sleep in their own beds while we visit and eat and watch movies late into the evening.
I haven’t minded it at all, but on Sunday morning and then again in the afternoon, when my living room and kitchen were filled with family and all the chairs were taken, and the table was covered in breakfast fare I’d prepared and then later with lunches, I thought how very nice it is to have your own house, the place you live in and, in my case, a house I love whole-heartedly, filled to bursting with loved ones.
(Which is not to say that I didn’t love having my house back all to myself yesterday or that it wasn’t very pleasant to take a long nap on my couch and eat tortilla chips at 11:00 p.m.).