We're THOSE neighbors!

I have an issue with grossly underestimating the time it takes our family to get anywhere. I also do the same thing when cleaning. I give myself three hours and it really takes four. This is especially true, if we have company coming in three and a half.

Today, we were going to my friend Rebecca’s house for lunch. I told her to expect us at 11:30. We showed up at 12:00. Fortunately, I brought lunch so she forgave us.

Rebecca and her husband bought several acres a couple of years ago and after adding a pond, built their dream home. It’s ahhhhmazing, and if you know anything about suburban life, you know it’s way the heck out there if they were able to buy several acres. That just doesn’t happen here. Even “estate” lots are generally an acre. Rebecca gave me directions and the kids and I headed out thinking we’d be a few minutes late, because we were already slightly behind schedule…We left five minutes before we were supposed to arrive. I would make a terrible estimator.

As I said, Rebecca’s house is a dream. It’s gorgeous, full of character, well designed, and best of all, is incredibly inviting. You can see the house from the road, and their driveway is winding blacktop that ends is a circular drive. We pulled off the road and onto their drive and Meredith yelled, “MOM!!! You’re driving on the cart path! You’re not supposed to drive vans on the cart path!!!”

Rebecca and I had lunch, while our kids played on the deck over-looking their pond. It was so nice, aside from the constant opening and closing of the sliding doors. My kids let every fly within a four county radius into the house. After lunch, we worked on photography stuff and just gabbed while the kids played outside. Rebecca’s husband put on dive gear and a show my kids talked about all the way home. He was working on their pond’s fountains and the kids were all glued to the dock. Not something we see every day. It also provided Alex with additional material for his never-ending question arsenal. He dips into his reserves when I would really love a quiet ride home.

Rebecca's son, Cameron.

And her daughter, Auburn.

After a few hours, it occurred to me we needed to scoot because I was fixing dinner for a neighbor who recently had a baby. Of course the kids weren’t ready to go and it was past naptime, so you can probably guess what kind of exit we made. They were mad and wanted to know just who it was that I had to make dinner for. I told them I couldn’t remember the family’s name, and it was a new neighbor. I also mumbled something about getting myself into these situations and Alex said, “No Mom, you should make them dinner. That’s being kind and a good neighbor.” Sigh. I love him. Meredith on the other hand said, “What do you mean you don’t know them?! I thought we weren’t supposed to TALK to strangers and you’re making them DINNER?!”

We came home, I washed off dirty feet and made dinner for the strangers three doors down. For the record, I washed my hands after the feet. We made our way down the street with dinner. I wore my Ove-Glove in public and Alex carried the brownies. Now, keep in mind, we’ve never met this family. I rang the doorbell with my ungloved hand, and within seconds Meredith plastered her face to their door. Turns out, the new neighbors are just the kind of people for whom you want to make dinner. They were adorable, grateful, and incredibly gracious.

I introduced us and Meredith immediately said, “Hey, where’s your baby? Can I see your baby?” They graciously brought him down from the nursery and after two seconds of gazing at the sweet little guy, Meredith made herself at home. She was all over their first floor. I was trying to hold a polite conversation so they didn’t think my casserole was poisonous, and Meredith pipes up with, “Hey, is this an eraser?!” She was picking things off their desk in their kitchen. I scooped her up, which is practically a guarantee for a Meredith fit. I got our circus out of there as quickly as possible. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a FOR SALE sign in their yard by tomorrow morning.