Usually it was fish and chips that they offered to bring. Crispy battered haddock and thick-cut fries doused with vinegar and a sprinkling of salt, picked up from the Chippy on their way over.
I’d start to tidy, but would remind myself not to worry too much. Just a quick wipe of the bathrooms, and a fresh hand towel (one of my personal hospitality must-do’s) would suffice.
There wasn’t much point in frantically scooping Lego into toy bins or straightening out the sofa cushions. Our friends did, after all, have three little boys who’d be joining our two (at that time), and I knew I could expect the five of them to make quick work of emptying the wicker toy basket and turning the sofa into a pirate ship.
After the ketchup-soaked fish and chip papers had been cleared away and the children were in the other room hard at play, the adults would gather round the dining room table, within ear shot of the littles in case someone got a bump, or there was a lesson on sharing that needed to be learned.
There’d be coffee then, or tea, and some little nibbles, and the stresses of life would dissipate as we talked and shared, the fire crackling at our backs. They’d stay past bedtime, but we didn’t mind.
They were our last-minute friends. The spontaneous ones. And we loved it.
We loved it, and it went both ways.
I remember phoning once, on our way home from a day of picnicking and wading in the rock pools of St Andrews. And we were invited to “tea” (the evening meal in many parts of Scotland).
There were probably toys everywhere. Crumbs on the floor. Some sprinkles on the toilet seat. But I don’t remember.
I remember the lamb chops smothered in curry paste, the homemade sweet potato chips sprinkled with salt and hot pepper seeds. I remember Mary’s smile. I remember there was cake.
Later on, Mary and I nursed cups of milky tea beside the patio doors while the men took the children into the cool autumn air to play on the trampoline. Two tired mamas, we talked, we laughed, we shared our hearts so that the other knew how to pray. We felt stronger. We knew love.
You see, a mama doesn’t mind it. Not one little bit.
Doesn’t mind balancing her cup of tea as she picks her way over the minefield of toys to make her way to your couch.
Doesn’t mind grabbing a wad of toilet roll to wipe sprinkles from your toilet seat.
Has selective vision when it comes to the pile of dishes in your sink.
She didn’t come to inspect your house. She didn’t come to give you extra work.
She came for the friendship. The laughter.
She came to see you.
Friendship and laughter bring sanity. Clarity. Helps us see that most of the chaos is normal, and we’re not the only ones going through it all.
God made us that way. To bear one another’s burdens. To celebrate together.
And I have to remind myself of this often–
that my desire is to bless, not impress.
That laughter is made brighter, tears are made lighter when there’s cake.
Cake, and of course, a hot cup of tea.
And so even if you are a tired mama, don’t let this stop you from letting others into your house, especially if they are a tired mama, too.
Read If You Know A Tired Mama (how to love her) Part 1 & Part 2
Avonlea x
For literary inspiration for your home & a PERIOD DRAMA in your inbox EVERY Friday sign up here!
Start your MORNINGS with thoughtfulness, grace, and literary inspiration sign up here!
OR find me on . . .
Instagram/Facebook/MeWe/Pinterest @happylittlesigh
Happy Little Sigh
Homemaking Inspiration from Literature
happy little sigh 