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I love having friends over, but with three kids; big writing dreams; and the never-ending onslaught of preparing and cleaning up breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, dinner, snack, snack, and snack, having a friend over for a meal started to feel too much like work and less like the break I craved.
I am not a neat freak or perfectionist by any stretch, but having company came to mean clearing a path in the explosion of crafts and creations on our floor, folding the mountain of laundry on the couch, and finding the source of that questionable smell. I started to feel grumpy when preparing for visitors, snapping at my kids to pick up their underwear and wipe the toilet seat, for crying out loud.
In one part of my brain, I knew that this reaction was ridiculous — my friends were coming to see me, not my home; they would understand the scribble marks on my hardwood and my 9-year-old’s unmade bed — but the other part of my brain said that pride in ownership is a healthy thing and germs are not.
Then I discovered the “Crappy Dinner Party.”
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