From my living room,
a wayward basketball bounces off the side of the house,
a boy cheers for his own high score from the family room,
birds sing from the backyard,
and the cross breeze is like a kiss.

I interrupted the trampoline party to bring snacks for the whole crew.
And I heard these two compliments:
“Mrs. Williford, your son is, like, the best kid on this whole block.
And now?  You’re, like, the best parent.”

Score.

I’m not above buying their affection with CapriSuns and VeggieStraws and Fruit Snacks.  And Fruit by the Foot and Skittles.

Just keep this in mind, sweet children of the neighborhood.  This is where the fun happens.  And you’re always welcome here.

In the meantime, my children are learning the love language of hospitality.

(I was meant to live here.)

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