Why I Prefer Hosting Over Visiting Your Home

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There was a time when I absolutely dreaded being the host. The thought of throwing a gathering at my home meant I had to tidy up, prepare food, and deal with the unpredictable nature of guest attendance—either too many or too few. I relished my cozy little cave, socializing only when absolutely necessary before retreating back to my sanctuary.

However, since becoming a stay-at-home mom to a lively toddler, my perspective has shifted dramatically. I find myself yearning for adult conversation, craving interaction beyond the delightful but limited chatter with my 2-year-old and the antics of Princess Sofia. I often look for excuses to meet up for a chat with friends.

Here’s the catch, though: I really don’t enjoy visiting your home.

Please don’t misunderstand me—your home is lovely, your culinary skills are impressive, and I admire how your outfits capture that sleek Mad Men aesthetic. Yet, it’s hard for me to have a good time when my toddler is acting like a mini tornado.

I know your invitation was considerate, and I appreciate you including both me and my little one. However, while I strive to be the ideal guest, my tiny whirlwind has other plans. The moment we step through your door, she transforms into an explorer determined to claim your space as her own. She treats your furniture as her playground, eager to climb on everything (shoes and all), snatch up anything not secured, and, heaven forbid, chase your unsuspecting pets—all while clutching a cup of red Kool-Aid.

In that moment, I face a dilemma: I can either give in to the chaos and enjoy some drinks with friends, or I can spend the entire evening playing a game of chase that makes WWE look like a leisurely stroll. Despite my attempts to bring distractions like toys or even letting the TV babysit her (gasp!), she always finds ways to make your beautifully decorated home a battleground.

Then there’s the food. Regardless of the gourmet options you present, whether it’s a colorful fruit platter or even chicken nuggets, she will inevitably turn her nose up at it. You could be the culinary lovechild of Giada and Rachel Ray, but to my child, everything seems suspicious and gets spat out onto your carefully selected rug.

Even as we say our goodbyes and compliment your delicious meal, I know I’ll have to swing by McDonald’s for a second dinner on the way home.

When the festivities kick off around 8 PM, my child serves as a constant reminder of her bedtime at 7:30. She wails at everything that doesn’t please her, and after her third tantrum—this time involving your poor cat—I realize it’s time to make our exit with a polite, “This has been lovely, but we must be going.”

In the end, I leave feeling like I missed out on a fun evening. I barely managed to sit down without her trying to eat your decorative potpourri, and I didn’t even get to hear the story about how you met George Clooney at the grocery store.

So, my friend, don’t take it personally when I ask you to come to my house instead. It’s not that I dislike your place; in fact, I enjoy being in a home that doesn’t smell like stale urine or sour milk. I prefer it because my child understands the boundaries and can roam freely without my constant vigilance over her every move. Our home is a well-worn playground; there are stains on stains on the couches, and I’ve long accepted that our carpet will never be pristine again.

Most importantly, when bedtime rolls around and my little princess turns into a pumpkin, I can simply tuck her in and then enjoy an uninterrupted evening with you. Being able to relax and have a decent conversation is worth the effort of hosting these days. I don’t mind cooking or cleaning (or attempting to), especially if it means I can focus on you and not on my toddler’s latest adventure in chaos. So tell me, is Clooney really as charming near the produce aisle?

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