An Abode to Unload

I think pretty much everybody has thought about what their dream house would look like - or at the very least, the cool details it would contain. Like built-in storage or a spa tub the size of Texas or under-cabinet pot racks so you wouldn't risk an avalanche every time you make dinner (or is that just me?). I have a Pinterest board full of such revolutionary items, but I can't seem to find a pin for the one thing I want most: a "decompression room."

See, every time I walk in the door, I'm immediately bombarded by kids. But not so they can heap adoration upon me and tell me how sorely I've been missed ... oh no. From the millisecond my foot makes first contact with our floor, someone is whining. Or tattling. Or asking if they can do this or have that.

I don't understand this in the least, because when my husband walks in, they're all, "Daddy! Yay, Daddy is home! Welcome home, Daddy!" and smother him with hugs and kisses. I mean, yeah, that's bombardment ... but at least it's the good kind. With me, though, it's a swift and determined takeover. "Mom-mmyyyyyy, my brother has been on the computer for way too long and it's my turn!" "Mom-mmyyyyyy, now can we have a Popsicle?" "Mom-mmyyyyy, Daddy promised we'd go outside but he's been sitting on the toilet playing his iPhone!" ... all against the backdrop of the toddler whining like he's been abused and neglected during my entire absence, because of course.

What I need is a room between the garage and the house that serves as a buffer. A no-whining, no-tattling, no-request-of-any-kind zone. Preferably soundproof, with someplace comfy to sit and a mini fridge. (Or, you know, a minibar.)

Oh, the possibilities. As long as it picks up on the Wi-fi.

I could chill in the room for a few minutes to unwind from whatever I've been doing and mentally prepare myself for whatever lies waiting for me in the house. There'd be a place for my shoes and bra, which would come off right away, and a supply closet full of comfy pants. (And maybe a direct chute to the laundry room so I wouldn't have to come collect the dirty clothes later.)

Of course, it probably wouldn't do me much good - because unless I could somehow procure a completely silent garage door (unlikely), my kids would still know I was home. And they'd know where I was. And they'd clamor at the door like a horde of hungry zombies.

Okay, so the decompression room sounds great in theory, but I'm not sure how well it would work out in real life.

Maybe I'll just start dropping by the bar down the street instead.