I’m not anti-social. Really. I live with six people, so how could I possibly be classified as anti-social? It’s just that I don’t particularly like having people not named Archbold over the house. It’s mostly that I know what takes place before non-Archbold people arrive. My wife makes us all clean the house. Like crazy.

I bring this up because we were getting the house ready for a barbecue/party this past weekend. I honestly don’t even know why we were having people over but we were. My wife is crazy. I can tell you this because I’m pretty sure she doesn’t read me all that often. To prepare for the party, my wife thinks she must make the house look like nobody lives in the house or has ever lived in the house, never mind five children.

She even had me dust under the books—like someone was going to come over and look under the books! Half of our friends can’t even read. (Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure they don’t read me either.)

The four oldest had been forced upstairs to clean their rooms for the barbecue—you know, because guests often dart upstairs with hot dogs to look under the books in the kids’ room.

So before my wife had me power wash the refrigerator or rearrange the six heaviest pieces of furniture, I schemed up a reason to run to Home Depot. One of the cabinets was missing a handle. It had “fallen off” according to the kids. My wife had been asking me to replace it since ... I think 1987. But getting this handle was crucial to the success of the party, you understand.

The 4-year-old was helping her mother scrub the art that “someone” had drawn on one of the kitchen chairs. We believe that “someone” to be the 4-year-old, but she acts like she just suffered a concussion and becomes as communicative as Joaquin Phoenix every time she’s asked about the hieroglyphs on the furniture. But anyway, the 4-year-old who couldn’t remember if she had drawn on furniture was smart enough to see through my clever ruse and asked if she could come along with me. She knew this trip to Home Depot was my version of tunneling out of prison. Kinda’ like the Shawshank Redemption with less Morgan Freeman and no shivs.

My wife seemed a bit glad to get rid of her (and me?), so we were freed.

Into the van we went, when I heard the outraged cry from the upstairs crew gathered at the open window of their bedroom. They had opened the window and pressed their faces to the screen because the smell of bleach had so permeated the house that it was either open the windows or burn out their nasal cavity and start hallucinating about very white things. My children pleaded for me to take them with me but I knew going back in would only spell trouble so I zoomed away. Yup. That’s what I did.

The 4-year-old asked me to turn on the “cowboy music,” which is what she calls country music. She had a great time singing country songs along with the radio in the back seat. I couldn’t hear her words because she was in the back row, but nothing is more beautiful to a father than his daughter singing. We stopped for Gulps and then we hit Home Depot and took our sweet time ambling up and down the lawnmower section. I put her in one of the rider lawnmowers and she pretended to drive, and we looked at paint color cards shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head before picking up the handle. Finally, I thought we’d wasted enough time so we headed home. On the way, I heard her singing along with the radio again.

A few minutes after we got home, people started to arrive, so there was no time to put the handle on the cabinet door. Darn. But the people’s presence put an end to the cleaning craziness. I think the neighbors were a bit overwhelmed at how happy my children were to see them. The hugs were a little intense. Pretty soon, my wife’s family was at the house, some neighbors, and relatives.

I cooked in the back yard while the kids played on the monkey bars and some of the other men joined me outside. After lunch, my four oldest asked if they could put on a little play. Everyone seemed excited and turned their chairs around in the living room. It turned out to be a musical, and everyone was very cute, so we overlooked some of the pretty gaping plot holes. Everyone applauded at the end and told my wife and I what a wonderful job we were doing with our children.

My wife graciously pointed at me and said, “Matt’s the one home with them.”

Right after that, my 4-year-old asked if she could sing a song because her older brother and sisters had all gotten to. Sure, I told her. She cleared her throat, pulled up her shorts and lowered her little Batman shirt so that it almost covered her entire little belly. And then she started belting out the chorus to a Lady Antebellum song. “It’s a quarter after one. I’m a widdle drunk and I need you now.”

Oh nooooooooooo!

The room erupted into laughter so loud it threw my 4-year-old off, so she started over again. “It’s a quarter after one. I’m a widdle drunk and I need you now.” Well, now the room is in hysterics.

My wife laughingly pointed at me and said, “Matt’s the one home with them.”

Nobody told me on the way out what a good job I was doing. I’m just glad nobody got it on video.

I’d write more, but I have to go put a handle on the cabinet.