I miss my commune!
This past holiday season, I spent seven nights in my beloved Cleveland with Sophie, who prefers to be called Sophia nowadays, Chloe and my girlfriend.
We stayed at my mom's house, the Polish mansion, in Brecksville, and on our second night there, the house turned into a commune.
Sophia and Chloe absolutely love to play with their cousins, Jack and Ellie, and I love their parents, Carlos and Katie. Soon, they stayed over each night as well, and we engaged in communal living.
Now, many communes get a bad rap because of a misperception that they are impractical and ultimately will end in death by Kool-Aid. But during these holidays, our days ended with all of us yearning for more communal living. We had no official religion in the commune, and on the final day, Carlos brought over his minstrel instruments.
One key that we learned early in our cult is that an equal distribution of labor is a good idea. With my mom as our overall leader, Carlos often was in charge of our rations. Katie's specialty was child hygiene, and mine was child bedtime.
As our kids and all of us bonded, Carlos and I noticed some slight changes in our personalities. He and I, for example, started dressing similarly in a uniform that featured our Soprano-esque track suits. When we didn't dress similarly, we made sure to stay close together.
We have no specific plans to expand our commune, but if we do, I believe tambourines will be involved.