Feeling at home.

We were at T.O.M. and Hannah’s house (TOM = the other Mark) after their oldest son’s birthday party.  Besides the usual people — us– a few neighborhood kids had been invited, along with their parents.  It was a low-pressure party, the way we like it.  The newly-minted eight-year-old had requested playtime in the local playground, plus "Heidi food" (goat cheese, goat milk, and black bread), followed by cake and ice cream at home.  The children played and had a great time.  The adults had tea and/or wine in the kitchen and chatted about crazy-expensive birthday parties and gluten-free chocolate cake recipes. 

When the "party" part was over and the neighborhood people had gone home, the rest of us looked around, asked each other in whispered tones if the "other people" were all gone, and breathed a sigh of relief.  Then laughed at each other and ourselves, content to be so at home in each other’s homes and company that when there are other guests we feel as if it’s us who’re all playing the role of host and hostess.