hosts with the most

That's the goal, anyway.

On my list of reasons of why we need a house on the Sunshine Coast, near the top was written: I want to hold space for others.

I wanted to fill the home with roast chickens and garlicky prawns and fresh trout sprinkled with fresh herbs. I wanted to pour Malbecs from the decanter we never use. I wanted to chill white wine from our wine club and serve it on hot summer nights. I wanted to master the art of the charcuterie board. I wanted to be barefoot in my garden with soil stuck to my soles. I wanted to host annual summer solstice parties where we invited everyone we knew and laid out jute rugs on fresh sweetgrass. I wanted to pick roses and pop them into our ceramic holders. I wanted to use the nice plates. I wanted everyone to trek sand inside the entryway after a day of dipping in and out of the ocean at our beach the road. I wanted to curate the perfect evening Spotify playlist — thank god for “Dinner With Friends” — with lyrics trickling down the corridor and wafting out the windows.

I wanted to apply the lessons my mother taught me, like:

Place a sprig of fresh lavender, rosemary, or thyme on your guests' napkin. Fill a glass bowl with water and add floating tea lights with rose petals for your dinner table. Light a scented candle from Bath & Body Works in the bathroom.

Leave a handwritten yellow Post-It note on their bedside table welcoming them home. Stock their bedside table with packets of Lays chips and lemon La Croix. Lay fresh towels and robes out on their bed. Optional: add Sephora samples.

Place a heating pad in between the sheets, just in case they get cold.

In other words, I wanted our house to be a place where our loved ones felt loved.

Before we had our baby, we were in full hosting mode. I walked to the beach to my secret spot where I found fresh jasmine for our guests' bedside, inside the guest room that now belongs to my daughter. I laid out charcuterie boards on our deck. We picked up local ciders and fresh oysters to shuck. I picked out their favourite snacks and arranged them in a basket. I laid out our new waffle towels. I added an eye mask at the last minute. I hung a fluffy white robe in their closet. 

We had a starter, main and dessert prepped if you came over for dinner. We had the house cleaned professionally. Our Vitruvi diffuser infused the air with the scents of spruce and grapefruit. What is that wonderful scent? is a question I always want guests to ask. I lit a candle for the coffee table and another for the dining table and another for the deck. We spent the weekends with them outside, hiking and kayaking and showing off the gems of our town no one else knew about. We went to bed past midnight and woke up whenever we felt like it.

Since the baby arrived, however, I’ve greeted guests with the concept that this is as good as it’s gonna get. 

We’ll set up your bed in our family room, but our dogs may come and cuddle you in the middle of the night. There’s fur everywhere, deal with it. Unfortunately, we have one dog with white fur and another with black fur, making your wardrobe choices for the weekend near to impossible. But it will be so quiet and you won’t hear city noise. 

We’ll make breakfast, but you might get woken up earlier than you’d like. Would you like pancakes or eggs? We’ll shuck fresh oysters, but it’ll happen during nap time. We’ll make dinner, but come early if you want to see the baby. She’s at such a good age right now. We’ll get good wine and beer just in case, to drink after bedtime when the white noise volume is bumped up. We broke all our water glasses. Here’s a mason jar. We forgot about dessert. Please bring some. 

We remembered to empty the diaper pail just in time and frantically spritz the air with Saje’s Airoma Loo just in time. Don’t judge us. We frantically cleaned the house in 15 minutes because our cleaner canceled on us this week, and this is as good as it’s gonna get. Please ignore the mess. 

The thing about becoming a default host once you’re a parent and you can’t really go anywhere at night; is that you forget the feeling of luxuriating in another’s home, under the cover of darkness. 

So when our close friends K + S, proud new owners of a vintage airstream Airbnb, texted us recently saying “come over for dinner and a hot tub night!” we found no reason to disagree.

But the thing about becoming a parent during a pandemic is that you are always on edge; waiting in the wings for the right conditions. 

Who is sick today and needs to cancel? Who got exposed to the newest strain of COVID and needs to play it safe and cancel? What if the baby was acting weird and we needed to just keep an eye on her tonight? What if, barring all odds, the weather ruins everything? What if the babysitter can’t make it anymore? What is Plan B? What is Plan C? What if everyone is just so goddamn tired of waiting and planning for backup plans on top of the original plan that it’s not worth the effort anymore? 

We anxiously texted each other through the afternoon, watching the weather, which was having an emotionally turbulent day, and couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to release torrential rain or hail or finally part the clouds for us.

By evening, the sun was out and dappled light filtered throughout their wooded property. 

What if, finally, everything was perfect?

Weighed down with a tote filled with snacks, wine, and towels we would never end up needing, we stepped through their gate at almost-sunset to see two fire bowls crackling with warmth, music setting the mood to switch off, wines and drinks galore and faces that were genuinely happy to see us. We ooh-d and ahh-d over their quick renovation that produced stunning results for their Airbnb, we feasted on halloumi gyros and fries and snacks, and watched the sun slink away behind the cedar trees, apologetic for her mixed signals throughout the day.

Have you ever had evenings with friends where you stop watching the time? Have you ever had conversations that never lulled, but never felt tiring to keep up? Have you ever felt taken care of unconditionally?

Have you ever sipped fresh cider in a hot tub under the stars on a Wednesday? Have you ever inhaled the scent of firewood, chlorine, and leftover spring rain? Have you ever texted your babysitter to ask for one more hour please?

Have I ever.

“It feels so good to be hosted,” I tell our friends as we settle in, swirling a can of kombucha and taking a sip.

“That’s how we feel at YOUR house,” they reply with a knowing smile.

As I slid further down into the hot tub, eyes closed, listening to an owl hooting in the distance, I thought:

My mother would be proud.

A perfect evening at Arlo.