A Conversation with Gutsy's Friends

Seven boys in my house.

Seven. Boys.

"Tired" doesn't even begin to describe my desire for a long, hot shower and an even longer, uninterrupted sleep. One of those things will likely not happen. Guess which one?

Gutsy loved his party, and everyone had a really great time. Dawson's parents even let him come. Great news , considering that, just last week, I thought I was one ditch-splashing away from a visit from our local child protection agency.

A lot of people have asked what a "half-sleepover" is, so I will explain: A half-sleepover is what parents with experience and clue organize for their child instead so as not to go completely crazy by morning. The children arrive around dinner, eat some pizza, have cake, play some games, get in their jammies and watch a movie. Then, just before everyone gets tired enough to fall asleep and, more importantly, because freaked out little kids start crying about wanting to go home, the party is over! Parents pick up their tired, wound-up, sugar-high kids, we get a full night's sleep, and Gutsy thinks we are the bomb.

We came by this experience and clue honestly. Intrepid's wake-over sleep over a couple of years ago taught us that we must avoid another at all costs. Gutsy stayed up until an ungodly hour and was as easygoing as a rabid grizzly bear at a honey convention the next day. Spawnling was but a year old and woke up every hour or so to laughter and the ongoing use of outdoor voices emerging from the living room.

To prove how traumatized I still am from the experience, I would give away my coffee pot if it meant we never had to have a group of boys sleep in our house again.

(Unless those boys happened to be Chippendales who's tour bus broke down in front of my house. I would be a very kind hostess to them; they could even sleep in my bed. As you all know, I'm a big proponent of co-sleeping.)

It's now 10:30. I am beyond exhausted a full day of party prep and the management of excited, antsy gremlins who woke me up at the jaw-dropping hour of 6:40AM.

Two parties down, one to go: Intrepid turns thirteen on the 30th.

Thirteen. A teenager. We're going to pretend I didn't just say that.

I drove two of the boys home tonight: Elijah and Dawson. On the way out the door, I complemented Dawson on his proficiency at shoelace tying. I said I was nearly eight before I could tie laces that well, but that I do a pretty good job at the age of 33. I then laughed at my own joke.

"You're thirty-three?!" gasped Elijah.

I smiled and nodded. I waited for the inevitable "You look a lot younger than that!" to follow. I get that all the time.

"Whoa!" exclaimed Dawson.

"My mom is only twenty-nine," said Elijah.

"Yeah, and mine is only twenty-eight," Dawson added. "You're older than my mom?"

"I guess I am!" said I.

"And my mom, too! You're older than both our moms."

My smile was more like a grimace now. An old person grimace.

"Yay me!" I grimaced. "The van is this way."

I used to roll my eyes at women who lied about their age, or were hesitant to give it. I would now like to sign up for that club, please. And do I get some free Botox injections?

Bloody hell.

Dawson's Mom

Dawson is a little boy in Gutsy's class. I don't know him very well, but I do know that Gutsy really likes him. He lives about two blocks from our place, so you would think the boys would get together and play sometimes, but they don't. And it's all my fault.

One day, about a year go, I decided my van had suffered enough neglect and needed a good cleaning. By 'good cleaning' I mean it probably needed to be dunked in a lake of bleach, but a quick tidy would have to do. So, I brought Gutsy and Spawnling outside to play while I tackled the colossal, overdue task.

I admit, I got a little obsessed doing it. I mean, there was a lot to clean up. Some of the old food I found was growing new forms of life on it, while the old toys had been stepped on so much they had broken into fun and exciting new toys. "Hey, kids! It's everybody's favourite hazardous action figure, Pointy Pete! Whoa! What's attached to his arm? Not a hand holding a jackhammer anymore! No way! It's a long, sharp piece of undoubtedly lead-laden plastic! Nobody can stab like Pointy Pete! Awesome!!"

I was busy helping Pointy Pete and his band of eye-gouging superheroes into my shiny green plastic bag, when I heard a sweet voice from the road saying. "Hey, little guy. I don't think your mommy would want you in there."

We have a ditch in our front yard lining he edge of the road. It's fairly deep as far as ditches go - probably about four feet - and is filled with weeds, varying levels of water, and sharp rocks. Guess where Spawnling was? Spawnling, who had never gone into the ditch and has not again since that day, was splashing around merrily in his rubber boots. And what was yours truly doing while this dangerous activity was going on? Why, I had half my body in the van as I reached for an old juice box under one of the bucket seats, with the radio on just loud enough to drown out any sound of my toddler creeping into the ditch to, well, drown.

I looked up when I heard the voice, and saw a mother and her two boys stopped on the road in front of my house. One child stared at Spawnling quizzically from his stroller, while the other one waved and said "Hi, Gutsy."

"Hi, Dawson!" replied Gutsy.

"Oh, shit," replied I under my breath. It's bad enough that another mom had to coax my child out of danger's way. The fact that our boys knew each other was the cherry on my embarrassment sundae. Awesomeness.

I helped Spawnling out of the ditch, sputtering something about how he had never done that before, and how my back had been turned for only a minute, and how I appreciated her noticing, and how it's nice that Gutsy and Dawson are friends, and that hopefully we'd see them again.

She was incredibly nice and warm, leaving insecure me to assume that she was simply quite good at concealing her judgment. I had it set in my mind that she would be going home to Tweet about how the mother down the road might want to actually supervise her children sometimes.

Fall turned to winter, which turned to colder winter, which turned to warmer winter, which eventually turned to a few short weeks of spring, which turned into a summer that felt more like spring, and eventually into fall again. All through the months I would hear about how one of my friends is caring for Dawson before school, and how nice his parents are, and how another friend's child went to Dawson's birthday party, and how lovely his mother is. I would nod and smile politely, all the while feeling shame churning 'round in the pit of my stomach. Gutsy would tell me virtually every day that he wanted Dawson to come over and play. I would smile nervously and wonder just how much his parents would not want him to come over and play at the irresponsible Maven's house.

Today, I met my good friend The Dog Whisperess and her daughter Diva at our neighbourhood park. While Gutsy, Spawnling and Diva were arguing for artistic control over their sand creature frolicking joyously in the warm fall air, a very familiar boy came skipping down the path.

Dawson.

My heart jumped. This was it. In a few moments, his mother would turn the corner, call to memory our unfortunate first meeting, and blast me with the cold stare of judgment. My heart leaped into my throat as I awaited the reality of what was to come.

She turned the corner.

She walked down the path.

She stopped and... smiled? Was she smiling? No, that must be a grimace. She was grimacing at me because I am an awful parent who didn't notice my two-year-old about to be sucked into the Ottawa River through a series of waterways.

"Hi! How are you?" she beamed. And it wasn't one of those polite 'How are yous' - The Maven would know, as I am a social goddess in most circles - this was a genuine, happy greeting.

She stopped and talked to us for a good while as the children played. In that conversation I mentioned my embarrassing first impression in that ha-ha-but-seriously-I'm-not-a-horrible-mother kind of way. She laughed about it and said something really nice and reassuring about how that happens to everyone - and not in that 'I'm just trying to make you feel better, you trashy excuse for a parent' kind of way, either.

I left the park with their phone number and tentative plans to meet at the park again in a few days.

Dawson's mom is very nice and she doesn't hate me. I'm glad it only took me a year of assumptions and avoidance to resolve this little issue. Not bad. I feel much better.