This summer we hosted two new (to us) children through the Fresh Air Program. Never before have we had such a good hosting experience. Both children were easy-going, courteous and kind, and excited about being at our house. It was dreamy. I kept feeling like I should pinch myself.

The girl, age eleven, was such a gentle soul: mild, easy-to-please, and adventurous. She ate anything and lots of it. She and my younger daughter hid in their bedroom for hours on end, for days in a row, playing some imaginary game with Playmobile people.

The boy, a just-turned six-year-old, was cute as a button. And brave! (These kids—and their parents!—are so brave.) He didn’t shed a single tear for the first five days, and when he did, it was an understated tear, just a little trickle of water running down his cheek. Later that same night he did, however, fall apart. We dubbed the (brief) floor flailing The Marshmallow Meltdown. FYI: If you’re not expecting it, the changed physical properties of a roasted marshmallow can be infuriating.

From the boy’s mouth:

*“What’s all that grass?” Answer: corn.

*A couple hours after the kids arrived, I called up to the stairs to the boy where he was playing Legos. “Do you want to call your mom and let her know you got here?” I asked. Him, flatly, “No.” (!!)

*He loved “chocolate tea.” (Hot chocolate.)

*Boy: “I’m hot. I’m never going outside again.” (Pause) “Maybe summer was a bad idea.”

For the whole week the kids were here, I pretty much put everything (read, my writing) on hold and focused on feeding people, doing only the emergency gardening and housework, and taking the kids swimming. As a result, the week was playful, both relaxed and busy. It felt refreshing, like a vacation.

The older children were a tremendous help. My older son often gave the boy his bath and read him his bedtime stories. And when the boy got squirrel-y (and my younger son grew irritated), I’d send my older son upstairs to play Legos with the boy for awhile. At the pool, I sat on the side and read my book while the older kids kept an eye on the youngers, coached them on their swimming skills, and monitored their pool etiquette.

Even though we’ve been hosting children for a number of years now, this summer there were a couple firsts:

*We don’t usually get much verbal appreciation from the city families, but this year the girl’s grandmother called to specifically thank me for hosting her. And the boy’s mother was profuse with her appreciation towards us (and super friendly—I wish I could have her over for coffee).

*My younger daughter actually asked me if City Girl could come back for an entire month next summer.

This was the first time this sentiment has ever been expressed, but as much as I appreciated the enthusiasm, I suspect that one week is just about the perfect amount of time for us (for now, at least). By the end of the week, everyone was getting a little worn out and crotchety—the normal effects of continuous shared space. But it did cross my mind how easy it would be for a kid or two to jump on the train and travel down for a mid-winter visit…

*The last evening when I was tucking the kids into the bed, I asked them if they were eager to get home. Both kids waffled. And both kids said, I don’t want to leave. I don’t think any of our host children have ever said that to us before. It was better than a “thank you.”

It’s weird, but I actually feel a little shy about telling you how good the week was. Almost guilty, like I should be hush-hush about our good fortune. Because what if you read this, get all excited and decide to host, and then have a hellish time? On the flip-side, I felt this same reserve when we had our horrible hosting experience—like I shouldn’t say anything because it might deter people from hosting. I guess the moral of my hesitations and conflicting emotions is this: hosting Fresh Air kids is a luck-of-the-draw experience. Don’t have any expectations and keep on hosting, and maybe, just maybe, there will be rainbows.

This same time, years previous: spaghetti with vodka cream tomato sauce, the quotidian (8.12.13), Friday snark, another hosting story, and drying food.

That’s the name my husband’s sister gave our gathering, and it’s the name that stuck. It also happens to totally fit.

Nine siblings from around the globe—Las Vegas! Oregon! Tennessee! Hong Kong! Etc!—descending upon a large red house in upstate New York with eight spouses (we missed you, Rachel!) and twenty-three grandchildren (we missed you, Mallory!) was bound to have a sort of Kaboom Effect. And it did, but not at all in a bad way. Just in a very loud sort of way, with lots of people, wet swimming suits, dogs, and beer. At mealtimes, watching the hoards descend upon the kitchen, the phrase “a crush of human bodies” kept running through my mind. It was impressive.

Also impressive:

*That nine siblings can gather for a good 48 hours and actually get along! They visited and frolicked the whole time, together. Not once did I witness a single episode of nasty rudeness, and if anyone had to step out for some deep breathing, I didn’t notice. In other words, graciousness reigned. Which is either a tribute to the Parents Supreme or just bountiful good luck.

*An evening out for the 17 adults! The 23 kids holding down the fort! While we feasted on burgers and fish tacos (and then hopped across the street to finish up the evening at a bar), the children made a supper of sloppy Joes, watched a movie, and had secret snack. When we returned, all the littles were in bed, the kitchen was spotless, and a fire was blazing in the fire pit on the deck.

*The awesome bartender who stood precariously high on a wobbly stool (chair? table?) and took lots of pictures of us!

*The vast quantity of alcohol consumed!

(The first time I visited my husband-then-boyfriend at his parents’ house, I unwisely picked the beer-filled cooler upon which to park my butt. I spent the evening jumping up. Times have not changed, except this year it was my father-in-law who made the unwise seating choice. However, considering that he’s not a drinker and he’s not as limber as a 19-year-old and it was rather rude to ask him to repeatedly stand up, perhaps his seating choice was intentional?)

*Our extravagantly generous hosts!

*The lake! The lake! The lake! Several of the brothers had rented a lake house and each afternoon we’d all descend on the little house with a big dock and the entire Seneca Lake for a backyard. It was an all-you-can-swim/boat/fish party.

*Also, lots of other activities! There was hiking at the gorge, a trip to the lake to see fireworks, small-group visits to the grandparents’ new, downsized home, bracelet making, the all-family photo shoot, and daily-life events like shopping, biking, running, and, of course, lots of cooking and eating.

bracelet making…

the fire pit…

the gorge…

just hanging…

*The (almost) zero presence of electronic devices! Instead, the cousins played. And played. And played and played and played. Watching them romp with such abandon, I felt like my children were being granted something extremely rare and precious—sacred, practically—that will be theirs to treasure for life. What a gift.

And then we headed home. On the way, we treated our kids to McDonald’s for breakfast (they were not impressed), my coffee had a face, and a random box of cheerios from Grandma saved the day (and got completely polished off).

THE END.


This same time, years previous: the quotidian (8.11.14), goodbye, getting my halo on, there’s that, a bout of snarky, sanitation and me, quick, quick, quick, and how to can peaches.

PS. A couple weeks ago, I was interviewed for a local podcast! If you’d like to hear me prattle on about blogging, parenting, and cooking, go here. (Other local bloggers were also interviewed, so, to Harrisonburg residents: be sure to check out those podcasts, too.)

This same time, years previous: a new friend, cheesy herb pizza, babies and boobs, the end, corn crepecakes, best banana bread, the quotidian (8.6.12.), and crunchy dill pickles.