The (glass) coffee table in the family room is about 15 hand prints across.
Small boys who’ve just scarfed down most of the two giant pizzas I made them and declared themselves full will still manage to demolish two giant bowls of popcorn not ten minutes later, in about five minutes flat.
Our “incredibly soundproof” home where we often cannot hear the children playing upstairs is not quite soundproof enough to mask the unmistakable sounds of seven small boys JUMPING ON THE BED.
Telling people “no gifts, please” is apparently southern-speak for “cold hard cash is preferred.” I swear I did not know this. (Note to self: Come up with a list of donation options before breakfast tomorrow morning.)
It is appropriate to wait 15 minutes after guests arrive before offering beverages. At that point, the herd of thundering children will signal that it’s time to break out the wine for any adult brave enough to endure the carnage.
My son is a giant goofball who is very easily impressed.
My daughter’s mother hen propensities can be very useful when the house is oozing testosterone.
A roomful of boys in pajamas will, at any given time, contain at least two boys who are grabbing themselves to verify that they haven’t, you know, left their little penises somewhere else, and one boy who is scratching his ass so deeply and with such fervor that you suspect he’s going to end up with a permanent wedgie.
Reason number 846 why my husband rocks: While I got everyone out the door at the end, he cleaned up EVERYTHING. Which was just a little bonus over not RUNNING SCREAMING INTO THE NIGHT at any point during the party.