On any given day, there are at least 827 children running through my house. Mostly boys with an occasional shock of little girl cuteness. We get them all at the Sandoval house. The put-together ones and awkward ones. The former bully. The baseball star. The tiny giggler. The artist and the painfully shy one. The one with ADHD who’s mama says, “Don’t come home until dinner,” (because, honestly, she’s probably up to her eyeballs in TIRED). The loud talker and the adorable kleptomaniac. No, seriously. I once had a little guy offer me a piece of my own gum he had stolen out of my backpack. “You’re cute,” I told his 7.2 billion little freckles, “but now I’m gonna have to keep my eye on you.”

The truth is, I love being the open door. Don’t be fooled, though, it’s not because it comes easy. There are uncountable things to not love when you become Grand Central Station: Kid Edition: the constantly dirty carpet (vacuuming lasts about four minutes unless it’s done at 10:30 pm), the trampled yard, the eating of all the snacks (I heart you so much, Costco), the inevitable destruction and demolition, the abandoned projects, the repeated everything like “close the screen door” and “please don’t climb on that,” the one billion cups EVERYWHERE all the time, the stupid fights… at this moment, there are five of them in my yard arguing over trade-backs on Nerf guns. I’d like to have a bonfire of those plastic pistols right about now. And can I just say it’s as loud as an angry mob in a concert hall? Put a bunch of them in a car and give them control of the playlist and you’ll be deaf in a few short miles (but you’ll find a new appreciation for group singing and electronic metal). So the deal is, I get why most people aren’t the open door. It’s a lot to field. It’s tiring and it brings the hefty element of unpredictable.

The instant mental reset required to be the main host is no joke. I’m not always up for company, but I can decide to open my door. The long view shows me that this is an investment with huge returns- most of which I’m convinced are not for me!  Every once in a while, though, all the neanderthals get kicked to the curb. You’ve seen Lord of the Flies. I’m telling you, it is REAL. But considering what we gain by allowing kids from the ‘hood to ring our doorbell every five seconds or climb over our back fence and appear at the living room sliding door, noses pressed to the glass in search of our own spawn (rule number one: ALWAYS be fully dressed. You never know which window they will appear at or when), it is a worthy surrendering of unmitigated cleanliness and order.

So chaos, yes. Noise, yes. Dirt, you’d better believe it. BUT… I hear all the things. And I mean ALL. Who was expelled from the middle school and the names that were on their hit-list (yikes!), things girls say to the boys, who the crankiest neighbors are, cussing and then maturity into NOT cussing, things they are afraid of both silly and serious, what flavors of sour Zots are the most common at the 7-11. I learn about their music and food favorites. Because I’m always around and *generally* not cranky, they tell me all kinds of things. I get to learn to be interested in the excruciatingly boring world of car headlight differences (make. it. stop.) and Lego Brick Arms variations (who even cares, right?!) and Nerf gun parts (that I’d like to introduce to the trash can) so that they will still be talking when we get to hallelujah subjects like girls and friends and Jesus and futures.

Just this week, a gaggle of them started at their various schools around town. Guess where they come between the end of the school day and dinnertime? And like clockwork I get to hear about their teachers and friends and how they think the year will go. Every single one of them has been scolded or corrected by me at least once. And they still come back to play and talk and just take up space and snacks. What a privilege, right? I think a little mud in the house, some rough and tumble, and a whole lot of after-school stinkiness is a pretty good trade.