IT'S A DAD'S LIFE:Come crunch-time, territorialism is not easily shaken off, writes Adam Brophy.
SOME PEOPLE can throw open their houses and let others stroll around. The property pages are full of descriptions of "marvellous spaces for entertaining", of monologues from vendors of how they regularly packed 200 people into their open plan living/dining area, and the patio doors were thrown open so that guests could also enjoy the lawns and Koi pond.
These people are not selling a redbrick in Rathgar, they are offering the chance to savour the glamour of their lives - in fact, to make it yours. At a price of course.
But the size of the house and the glamour of its surroundings is irrelevant. I'm sure Howard Hughes didn't live in a two-up, two-down, but he didn't invite many people round. The smallest of homes can be a bastion of comfort to friends and family, gaining a reputation for hospitality and good cheer.
These homes are populated by people who relish company and the arrival of the unannounced visitor. Sometimes I envy those people.
In many ways I am the antithesis of them. My house is my cave - and I the big, growly bear, rolling round in it. Momma bear and the cubs are welcome, but anyone else runs the risk of being eaten.
This isn't something I am particularly proud of, but I was never a good host. It's hard to see past the extra mess that visitors create, even when they're the people you share your life with beyond the close circle of your immediate family.
The fact is, they don't clean up after themselves, they insist on talking all the way through Top Gearand I am a Grinch. They also usually expect to be fed and watered.
I know, I know, I know, a home is the product of the life inside it; keeping your kitchen clean does not make it a great kitchen, inviting people into it does. Blah, blah. It's hard to overturn a lifetime's habit of retreating to and defending one's lair.
Last weekend I rather shamed myself. Two nieces came to stay; my monsters' favourite people in the whole wide world and I say that with their mother and me well and truly included. These are two of the most gorgeous, affable, entertaining and obliging kids you could hope to find, and they get on with my pair in a way you can only hope cousins will. Yet I resented their presence the whole time they were here.
I became the child. I sulked that the livingroom was besieged, that the volume was turned to the max, that milk was splattered all over the kitchen floor. I couldn't get to my computer because it had been commandeered for penguinclub.com.
I supplied pizza and ice pops and DVDs and seethed at the minor squabbles over who got to eat how much of what. In short, I was a brooding presence over what should have been a relaxed and enjoyable time for all. If this were a regular scenario and I felt we were being taken advantage of, maybe my growliness would have been justified. But the opposite is the case.
Their parents are the welcoming kind and we have lolled comfortably in their home, waited on with good humour and unending generosity, far more often than we have provided anything like the same in return. When it came time for me to pay back some of that, my inner Scrooge came to the fore.
I always wanted the kind of house that the kids' mates could feel was their own. You think the habits you developed within your own social sphere won't transfer into theirs, but they stick.
Even as I write this, both kids are ensconced in friends' houses, houses where the parents seem to welcome their arrival. Or maybe they don't, and I'm being deliberately blinkered to ensure I can palm them off as often as possible.
Nearly seven years into the parenting game and it's the noise that still gets me. I can just about manage the chaos caused by my own, but the demands of those not of my blood line seem a step too far.
There is a face-off between the desire for this to be a kid-friendly, playhouse venue and it to be maintained as my grim but familiar lair.
This inner struggle, a showdown between Bozo the Clown and Charles Manson, runs like this: "Come on in kids, welcome to the house of fun! But if you see me reach for the chainsaw - run!"
As for the cousins, I hope I haven't scared them off. Next time I promise to be nicer.