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'swake-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.
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
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.
