The most essential room in my house is one I rarely enter.
Tucked above the garage is a slope-ceilinged boy cave carpeted in Legos and crammed with cast-off furniture. In the corner, near the room’s single window, is the discarded bucket seat from an old Ford Bronco. My husband bolted it to a base, attached a steering wheel and rigged the whole thing up as the centerpiece of our sons’ favorite racing game.
On the other end of the room is the game table my mom got them for Christmas. Pool on one side, flip it over and air hockey on the other; ping-pong if they want to swap out the tops. Any time their friends come over, they all disappear into the playroom, and the roar of that racing game vibrates through the walls, along with the shouts and hoots that comprise boy-type communication.
A few years ago, when I hired a wonderful woman to clean my house every other week, I showed her all around my simple, single-story home and we chatted about what she would do and how long it would take.
“So is this it?” she asked.