Hogging the Hospitality

I can talk the talk, but can I walk the walk? The close quarters of living in the midst of five men has definitely set me on edge in the past couple days. Where did those little boys go? Who are these large-bodied creatures making peculiar sounds around the dinner table? I’ve often wondered what it’d be like to be a missionary among foreign people. I think I get it now.

I feel it’s me against them which is probably not the welcoming face I should offer. In olden times when you offered hospitality to a guest, you also needed to be gracious enough to accept whatever they gave you in return. One of the questions I used to hate to hear when inviting someone for dinner was, “What can I bring?” Nothing! Really. Nothing. I wanted them to bring nothing. I planned dinner, made dinner, and knew where every dish would fit on the table.

Very persistent guests would grudgingly wrangle an “OK, how about dessert?” from me. Thank goodness, I’ve mellowed with age for my former attitude was hindering the flow of hospitality. Hospitality is give and take, but I was hogging it all to myself. To give God also means to be willing to receive God – whatever God that is given which may not necessarily be the God that’s expected.

From unlikely sources such as…loud, obnoxious, teasing competitors comparing body hair around a table laden with turkey, stuffing, gravy, noodles, potatoes, rolls and cranberry sauce. I am so outnumbered. What survival techniques do I choose? Do I sink to their level and not shave my legs for a week to join in the fun? Where is our common ground now? What are these “guests” bringing to our table? Enthusiasm. That’s a better word than stupidity. Loudness. I sure don’t have to strain my ears to hear them. Love, I suppose, in their own warped ways.

Maybe that’s a clue for now: their own ways. They are coming to the table as separate, distinct individuals. Not little boy clones. They really do seem as if they come from a foreign land at times. Manland. Utterly inhospitable to woman. And in Manland I live like I have no hope of surviving, of enjoying, my men anymore. I feel like Bugs Bunny sitting in the pot of boiling water atop the roaring fire.

I’m just waiting. For what? To be swallowed whole? Or carved bit by bit? When put in those terms, neither outlook appeals to me. But that’s what I’m doing as the temperature around me soars. Bugs talked himself out of the pot. I need to talk some hope into myself regarding my dear darlings.

I was a good mom of babies. I was a good mom of little boys. I was a great football mom. And then life went kerflooey. I suppose I could try laughing at their stupidity…I mean “enthusiasm.” I do realize they are not purposely trying to ruin dinner…or life in general. They are simply being their own unique selves – unique with a capital “u.”

But as my dad says, "They’re good eggs.” They are. I know it. They’re great eggs. I want to feel like a great mom again. Although it may be more blessed to give than to receive, I think I better tune in my radar to receive what is being given. The kiss goodbye. The hug. The “Be careful, Mom.” And the accompanying “enthusiasm.”

It may not be easy being a mom right now, but I do remember that it wasn’t very easy being 19-24 either. Pretty confusing as I recall. And I’ve never been a man, so that is all foreign territory – their own perspectives about which I know nothing. I shall attempt to put myself in their shoes, and go with the flow for a while to see what happens.

But I’m still shaving my legs!