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I recently did something kind of crazy. I invited people over for that same evening — about 10 adults and their kids — people I have definitely not known for years, some of whose spouses I’ve never met. I didn’t clean my house. Like, at all. I only cooked based on what I already had in the kitchen — no grocery store run. I told people what I was making and asked them to bring whatever else they thought would work. There were dishes in my sink. There were toys laying around. I certainly didn’t shower.
And we had FUN.
Let me start by saying I am on no level a “neat freak.” I stink at managing clutter, and with three kids under 6, there is a LOT of clutter. I hate washing dishes, and my method of organizing papers involves many piles of which only I understand the significance. While I might feel like I’m constantly picking up and purging crap from my house, the state of my environs proves that I’m probably more likely doing other stuff with my time.
But I will say I am an entertainer. I love having people over, and, until the rugrats came along, I loved making eclectic, elaborate food and drinks. I would decorate for even a small party, and I would labor over aesthetically pleasing plating schemes for apps and desserts. I was (hopefully) never precious about it — my guests knew I did it because I thought it was fun, not because I was trying to impress them. I prided myself on making people feel welcome and appreciated. Entertaining — being an entertainer — became part of how I defined myself.
Enter: The Children.
Have you ever tried to “plate” with a 1-, 3-, and 5-year-old around? Elaborate entertaining, unless you have someone to remove your children from your house for a full day (or week), is not an option. So, for a long time, I didn’t do much entertaining. Sure, I’d have close friends over — friends who I was confident wouldn’t care about eating Trader Joe’s frozen apps off paper plates. But I wasn’t inviting over new people.
In retrospect, I think I worried that new people would think that level of low-key would indicate that I didn’t care about having them over, or that I was uncreative, or that I was incapable of putting together anything more. If part of my identity was someone who hosted extraordinary gatherings, what would happen if my gatherings became… ordinary?
So one day I just said, “Screw it.” There were some folks in town I had been chatting with and who I thought seemed very cool. So I texted them. I invited them over for that evening and gave the caveat that it was nothing fancy and my house would be in its natural state. I asked them to bring something to throw on the table for everyone to share. I committed to myself that I was not going to apologize for the state of my house or the non-fancy food. Then I spent the next hour panicking about whether I had made a stupid mistake.
Turns out I hadn’t made a mistake at all. We had a ball. Everyone ate and drank, the kids ran around, we laughed, and once things got rolling I never once stopped to worry about… well… any of it. Had I not just texted, had I waited to have time to put together something thematic and whimsical and involved, I never would have gotten to spend time with these people, and they never would have become my friends.
And as it turns out, I still am an entertainer — maybe even more so now. Because being a good host isn’t always about putting on a good show. Sometimes, in a stage of life where everyone is running around with their hair on fire and often feeling overwhelmingly lonely, entertaining is about simply providing a time and place for a gathering, and giving permission for everyone to be a little bit of a mess by being a little bit of a mess yourself.
