Chickadee is–even as I type this–watching movies and eating popcorn with 7 other 7- and 8-year-old girls. In a little while they will hunker down in their sleeping bags and whisper and giggle for who knows how long.
Thank the lord those girls aren’t HERE. I mean, yes, it sounds wonderful. For THEM. I had to restrain myself from offering the host mom some ativan before I left. In the end, I opted for the more politically correct salute and cheerful, “Good luck… and godspeed!”
The truth of the matter is that this is a rite of passage for her, and I’m happy for her to have it. But this particular girl and this particular party made me wary. Simply put: the birthday girl hasn’t always been kind to my Chickadee, and it gets my hackles up. Right NOW they’re getting along fine. Will it last through the night? I certainly hope so. We bought a gift and wrapped it up and packed two-thirds of Chickadee’s belongings in her pink duffle bag, and brought not only the Strawberry Shortcake sleeping bag BUT ALSO her pillow in the MATCHING Strawberry Shortcake pillowcase!
You can see I have a vested interest, here. All that packing effort.
Anyway, I’m trying to let go. There has been no tearful phone call, and most likely she’s having a wonderful time. Right? Right.
Instead, I have focused my energy in a two-prong campaign this evening.
Goal the first: Stay awake, and don’t cough up a lung.
Goal the second: Have an even cooler slumber party here, with the boychild, so that I do not have to listen to whining tomorrow that “she got to have more fuuuuuuuun!!!”
Monkey got to pick dinner. I offered a stunning array of choices, and he wanted… cheese and crackers. And chocolate milk. His wish was my command. A gourmet meal of cheese and crackers and chocolate milk it was. Accompanied by… not ONE… not TWO… but THREE episodes of Teen Titans! Because I? Am the GREATEST MAMA ON THE PLANET.
He finished “dinner” by the end of the first episode. So we paused, and grabbed the green-filled not-oreos. For the next two episodes I allowed him to eat his body weight in cookies. He crammed them into his mouth with grave concentration, slowing only to spray me in crumbs while making important commentary on the episode at hand. “KNOW WHAT!” he would interject–coating me in a fine spray of not-oreo dust–“He is a BAD GUY. He’s going to trap the Titans. But they’re gonna win! Cuz they ALWAYS win!”
After a while my ears started to bleed, but the crust of cookie spittle that coated me by then more or less protected my clothes.
It was actually a lot of fun. I let him stay up late, got some quality cuddle time on the couch, and who doesn’t like being declared the world’s greatest Mama? Plus he passed out about three seconds after I tucked him in. I’m pretty sure he’s in a cookie coma. Now I’m off to cuddle up with some Nyquil.
Looks like the first slumber extravaganza will be getting a thumbs-up all around.