Hotel "Your House"

Oh, there are so many reasons I would rather crash at your house than stay at a hotel!

First, there's the check-in: The warm, personal greeting accompanied by a sincere "We've been waiting for you!" The kids run off to play and you offer me a drink. I can leave the luggage by the door for now. I know you cleaned your house for us because places in your home (floorboards, windowsills) are spic and span in a way ours have never been. We'll help you mess things up in short order, starting with leaving our shiz all over the place.

Oh my goodness, you have an ice maker. Your water tastes better than ours. Your toys are cooler, too. Hotels don't have toys. Lame! We are so happy to be here! Especially because the long drive up here gave us hemorrhoids and headaches.

I love your towels--so soft and fluffy! I check their brand on the tag, just in case I actually replace the towels we use that my mom sent me in college. Can we talk about your detergent, too? It smells yummy in here. I think our washer must suck. Our laundry is not capable of harboring such good scents.

You welcome us to all your food and snacks. No mini-bar, this is real life and it's awesome. The kids agree you have better bread; your vegetables are fresh and you make some wicked chicken. I become convinced I need a rice cooker (which I can't afford when I get home and buy new towels and mattresses and detergent) and then your other dinner guest teaches us her fail-proof tips for preparing perfect rice. Not gonna learn that in a hotel.

I realize most people don't have as many dishes and silverware as we do (why we don't have to empty our dishwasher daily, and why our cupboards and drawers are overstuffed). We try coconut milk and almond butter sandwiches. You sprinkle brewer's yeast on popcorn. Brilliant!

We read your books (and you recommend some); you introduce us to a new kids' science show, light sabers, and spray bottles.

You have a flat-screen TV. You help me with my iPad--two fingers on the screen to scroll in a text box! Thank you.

I marvel at your functioning toilets (You have more than one; take that, hotel!). You offer to watch the kids while I go for a run, and your hills are forgiving and the air tastes more oxygenated. Your shower is hot and stays so; the water pressure makes me sigh. I try your shampoo. All natural. Not the cheap kind. Goat's milk soap! Luxury.

We take in tourist attractions and fit in a few errands; I admire your efficiency. We feed kids, bathe kids, read to them, let them watch a show so we can chat. I watch your parenting and am alternately inspired and validated. I feel at home in your house, so much so I fear I didn't leave things neater than I found them. I sacrifice tidying for talking with you. I take for granted you'll forgive us when we leave a wake.

No mints on our pillows, but you offer chocolate-chip-loaded graham crackers and the best ice cream in the world, you swear. I snuggle with my kids in bed and read my book to the flashlight you find for me. We sleep in because the sun sets later here and we're tired from the laughing and playing and shouting and shrieking (ssshhhhh!) and running around and driving around and love, love, love. Your kids are my kids now, again.

And you are giving us all your space and time and we don't want to leave. Except we have to, so that we can come back again welcomed with open arms and so we can check in at the next Somebody's House, before we return to our own home which is a little bit more boring than where we've been this trip. But we hope you won't think so the next time you come by.

I might have new towels by then.