When I think of home, I think of it as a place where I can be myself. I can kick off my shoes and go barefoot. I don't have to put on makeup or fix my hair. I can even wear pajamas till noon if I wanted to. The point for me is to have a comfort zone.
Of course, most days I wouldn't even sit on my front porch looking the way I do. My hair looks like it got into a fight with the cat most of the time and I usually smell of baby poop and Pine Sol.
That is why I run and hide when the doorbell rings.
When I was a teenager, we lived right smack dab next to the church that my dad pastored. Our house was always a magnet for those who just wanted to pop over and say hi. For some reason, no one ever thought of calling first and giving us a head's up.
Thus, people usually found us in some sort of disarray whether it be in the form of shoes piled up at the front door or a towel wrapped around my mother's head. It was hard on my mom to live in such a prominent place. Like me, she needs her down time. This was hard to find considering the doorbell rang often. The thing I remember a lot about my mom is her running for the bedroom whenever someone came over unannounced. Who wants to greet one of their parishioners with wet hair?
To this day, whenever I hear the doorbell ring, my immediate reaction is to stop whatever I'm doing and run for the bedroom.
I have tried to carry on this tradition with my sons. The boys love to run to the window and pull back the curtains to see who is at the door. Concerned that anyone would think we are home, I whisper furiously, "Get away from the windows! Don't make a sound!" I accompany this warning with one of my "mommy's dead serious" looks. My eyes narrow to slits and my mouth hardens and they always look at me as if I were going insane.
Of course, the van is always sitting in the driveway, but that never occurs to me at first. Then, checking to see if it is anyone I know, I usually see a UPS truck sitting at the end of the drive. Feeling like a fool, I answer the door. I'm sure that every time I greet a delivery man he takes one look at me and feels sorry for the man of the house.
At one time, I was expecting a delivery, so I was a little more layed-back about the doorbell. Too layed back. During the time when Happy was being potty-trained, I had him naked from the waist down.
Can you see where this is going yet?
The kid opened the front door to greet the unsuspecting delivery man before I could get to the door myself.
The child had a tongue-lashing he will never forget.
I do like my privacy and comfort zone, but I think I may be becoming a paranoid schizophrenic. Especially since the doorbell has been ringing unremittantly since the neighbor boy discovered playmates.
Of course, most days I wouldn't even sit on my front porch looking the way I do. My hair looks like it got into a fight with the cat most of the time and I usually smell of baby poop and Pine Sol.
That is why I run and hide when the doorbell rings.
When I was a teenager, we lived right smack dab next to the church that my dad pastored. Our house was always a magnet for those who just wanted to pop over and say hi. For some reason, no one ever thought of calling first and giving us a head's up.
Thus, people usually found us in some sort of disarray whether it be in the form of shoes piled up at the front door or a towel wrapped around my mother's head. It was hard on my mom to live in such a prominent place. Like me, she needs her down time. This was hard to find considering the doorbell rang often. The thing I remember a lot about my mom is her running for the bedroom whenever someone came over unannounced. Who wants to greet one of their parishioners with wet hair?
To this day, whenever I hear the doorbell ring, my immediate reaction is to stop whatever I'm doing and run for the bedroom.
I have tried to carry on this tradition with my sons. The boys love to run to the window and pull back the curtains to see who is at the door. Concerned that anyone would think we are home, I whisper furiously, "Get away from the windows! Don't make a sound!" I accompany this warning with one of my "mommy's dead serious" looks. My eyes narrow to slits and my mouth hardens and they always look at me as if I were going insane.
Of course, the van is always sitting in the driveway, but that never occurs to me at first. Then, checking to see if it is anyone I know, I usually see a UPS truck sitting at the end of the drive. Feeling like a fool, I answer the door. I'm sure that every time I greet a delivery man he takes one look at me and feels sorry for the man of the house.
At one time, I was expecting a delivery, so I was a little more layed-back about the doorbell. Too layed back. During the time when Happy was being potty-trained, I had him naked from the waist down.
Can you see where this is going yet?
The kid opened the front door to greet the unsuspecting delivery man before I could get to the door myself.
The child had a tongue-lashing he will never forget.
I do like my privacy and comfort zone, but I think I may be becoming a paranoid schizophrenic. Especially since the doorbell has been ringing unremittantly since the neighbor boy discovered playmates.
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