I want the hangout house.

When you were younger, you know you always had a home away from home at your friend’s house. If staying at your place was getting a little…annoying, you had an outlet. Not many people have that, but I was grateful enough to have some close friends with a choice of houses, and parents who just seemed to understand.

I don’t know how that happened, but it did.

Let’s talk about how much of a person it takes to welcome something that looks like..well..THAT..in their house willingly.

I had houses to go to that didn’t pass judgement. They didn’t bat an eye. They were willing to listen to me, talk to me, give me advice, and in some scenarios give me a bed to sleep in.

There’s not many of those in the world anymore. Not really.

Talk is cheap, guys, and it’s easy to say everyone is welcome into your home, but if your kid brought someone like me back to your home in high school, you’d be questioning everything. Like my parents did, the ones who told me that my friends were bad influences, hands down, because of how they dressed.

Oh. Look at that guy in the Slipknot shirt. The guy who is my husband. The guy who busts his ass everyday to give his family whatever he can. He’s selfless, hardworking, and so many more things I can’t put into words. But he’s a terrible person because he wears black and maybe he wore eyeliner better than I did and maybe he painted his nails and maybe he stalked around like he owned the place. Never once did they give him a chance.

Well, until I married him. Now I’m pretty sure my parents love him more than me.


I collect strays. That sounds terrible, but I’m referencing Grey’s Anatomy here. When I say strays, I mean people who just need a place to be away from the normal. You walk in, I’ll probably cook or bake something, I’ll throw in a movie, and you don’t need to talk. You don’t need to pour your heart out. You don’t need to stay an extended period of time because you’re worried I’ll get offended. Hell, most people don’t knock. They just come in. And that’s what’s expected.

And that’s what I want.

I’m going to raise the kids to be who they want to be. I don’t want them to feel like they can’t be themselves, at least not out of fear of what I’ll say or think. I want them to be open, honest, and know that they’re happy being themselves. I don’t want them to go to a person’s house where this is acceptable:

…but this isn’t:

See, Gabe is still young. His mind is still forming. He loves cars, dinosaurs, and superheroes. He also loves baby dolls, dressing up in skirts and jewelry, and playing “house”. And there’s nothing wrong with that, right?


So many would disagree with that. But not me. Never me. And I welcome anyone, gay, straight, any variety of color, whatever, in my house. Don’t get crazy, though. I mean, we have rules.

1. Don’t screw my stuff up.
2. No suki suki.

But aside from that, I want to be that house. The one that the kids grow up in knowing they can be who they are, invite their friends over, and not be judged. The one that the kids all want to hang out at, because we’re not the “norm”. The one that is filled to the brim with energy and life and fun and love. There’s nothing better than that.

Well, there’s nothing better than that except having a man you get to call your husband who shares the same non-judgement as you do.

There’s not much better you can get than that.


About The Ninja

Mother, wife, pet owner, ninja.
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