But I didn't. I just don't have the gene that makes you get all nervous when meeting people. I don't find it necessary to freak out about every little detail. I don't agonize for hours that my guests might not like my scratched up old Tupperware plates and cups. I don't worry that my china cabinet isn't sparkling. Well, I mainly don't worry about that one because I don't have a china cabinet. But if I did have a china cabinet, I wouldn't worry about it. Of course, my kids would've probably broken everything in it, so there really wouldn't be anything to worry about anyway....
I just don't stress about little stuff like that. My sister's the one who got the stress-out gene. She got it from my mom. My mom is hosting her bunko group next week. That means that for the past month she's been making lists of stuff that NEEDS to be done. She's cleaned everything despite the fact that it's just her and my dad in their house and they generally don't wedge granola bar wrappers in the couch cushions, spill pineapple juice on the floor, color on the tv, or shove dirty laundry in their closet. Their house is pretty much always spotless. It looks like a model home.
She's also landscaped, bought new dinnerware, tried out 52 new appetizer recipes, had the carpets cleaned, bought all new furniture, and built a 1000 square foot addition. OK, so I may be exaggerating a bit. A little bit.
Anyway, back to my visitors. Despite my stellar planning, I had to run out to the grocery store for some food for lunch. It was either that or feed the kids a can of stewed tomatoes and a some questionable looking celery for lunch. I've gotten spoiled with Joe being home most evenings. I haven't had to take all the kids to the grocery store with me in a long time.
I had one kid crawling under the cart. A couple more were writing, "cheese" and "poop" in the condensation on the deli case. Brooklyn was screaming her head off because she wanted to hold the little paper number I'd taken at the deli counter. Clay was sitting in the basket squishing grapes, Austin was teaching Brooklyn to say fun things like, "Get my gun!", and Savannah was giving me dirty looks because I tortured her by making her go with us.
After the grocery store fun, we spent the afternoon with our guests. The visit went something like this:
GUEST: Hi, nice to meet you.
CLAY: Mom! Look, a butt crack! as he indicated a dent in the pear he was eating
ME: CLAYTON REID! to my guest I'm sorry. It's so nice to meet you too.
CLAY: Look! Really Mom, there's a butt crack!
ME: Clayton, that's enough. to my guest He's charming, no?
CLAY: Butt crack! Butt crack! This pear has a butt crack!
ME: apologetically to my guest I dropped him on his head when he was little.
AUSTIN: Mom, come see my garden. I have 22 tomatoes growing now.
ME: That's awesome. I'll look at it later.
GUEST: So, besides your book, have you written anything else?
BROOKLYN: I want chips!
LEXI: Can I read this book to you, Mom?
SAVANNAH: Mom! Jackson's having pop!
JACKSON: Can I have a friend over?
BROOKLYN: I want chips!
LEXI: Can we go swimming?
JACKSON: Where's my baseball game tonight?
AUSTIN: Should I pick the zucchini today?
LEXI: Can I go across the street now?
ME: to guest Ummm, I'm sorry. What was the question again?
This went on for 2 hours.
I'm pretty sure we scared them right back home.
OK, now I need to talk about something serious. I know, I know, I really try hard not be serious. I don't want to ruin my reputation as a goofy dork. However, I wanted to bring something to your attention. I've been super fortunate that I've never been affected by post partum depression. Oh sure, I did the usual crying because I forgot to put fabric softener in the laundry or tearing up over a battery commercial on tv, and other stupid stuff like for a couple weeks postpartum, but I never experienced full blown depression. There are a lot women who don't fare so well when their hormones go bonkers after giving birth, however. Reese Butler founded 1-800-SUICIDE in 1998 after losing his wife to suicide. This program helps 50,000 callers every month. 50,000 a month! Women suffering from postpartum depression, teenagers unable to cope, adults, dads, brothers, sisters, grandparents. Right now, the Kristin Brooks Hope Center/1-800-SUICIDE is privately funded. Information about callers is kept confidential. Trained psychiatrict rescue teams are sent to help; not the police. And they're trying to keep it that way. They need to raise another 55k by August. Yes, that's a huge amount of money, but every dollar adds up. Maybe some of you have been affected by depression. Maybe some of you have even lost loved ones to suicide. This is a program that can help. Check it out HERE.
And finally, because I'm always in search of ways
Then after the geography embarrassment, the kids laughed at me as I smashed my little guy into rocks until he became unconcious. And I won't even tell you how long it took me to hop across the rocks to get to the center of the earth! In fact, after I killed my guy 4000 times, I gave up entirely. I think I'll just skip the game and let my kids play so they can taunt me with their vast geography knowledge. I'll just go to the movie instead. After all, Brendan Fraser is in it. Yum-o.