Two are at work and one’s at a friend’s, the two ladies are tucked in their beds, and Hubby hasn’t arrived home quiet yet.
But I can pick up sounds: the computer, rain, a few birds; clothes in the dryer, the oven makes a click, and for some reason my battery-operated clock ticks. Nonetheless, comparatively speaking, it’s quiet. And it’s nice, when I have the house all to myself, to just enjoy the fruit of my labors.
It’s a pleasant home. I like to think I have a healthy balance of pretty versus practical, clean versus comfy. Each room is a different color and has specific purpose, and the furnishings are eclectic (but not weird).
I’m very organized, so the chores are kept up, and it’s tidy. But we kick off our shoes, toss pillows, have beverages or snacks wherever we want, and spread out books or projects. It’s home. My favorite part is that my daughters voice appreciation of our home, and I don’t think an evening goes by that Hubby doesn’t express how grateful he is to come home to such a cozy abode.
Growing up, I remember visiting homes with never a dish or piece of paper in plain view. You felt like the moment you walked into the house, you were the one item of clutter—that this person wished could be stashed away. One time, when I visited a friend, we only had a short time to visit—but she spent the entire time scurrying about, picking up the place. I made a vow: keep my home tidy enough for guests (and family) to feel comfortable; and once they’re here, it’s about the people—not the place.
Well, that’s my place. I’ll close with a great quote: “Hospitality: making your guests feel like they’re at home, even if you wish they were.”