It was my eldest son’s birthday and he asked for a sleepover. No party, no treat, just a sleepover with a few friends. What could I say? A whimpering, ‘Okay then'.
The house was clean and the day arrived. Three perfectly nice boys appeared at the front door. Their mothers wished me luck and gave me tips for coping - usually something to do with wine, or chocolate. To my delight, they were polite and friendly, they talked nicely to his younger brother and didn’t spill food and drink all over the floor (well not everywhere). It was as good as I could have hoped for. But…
I spent the next week finding all the nerf darts shot around the house. I had to restock the kitchen with food and drink, but I survived. And then...
His younger brother had the same idea (were they scheming?) and his birthday was only a few weeks after that. Four sporty eleven year olds on a winter sleepover. When it goes dark outside around four in the afternoon. Four eleven year olds… for 24hours… bored and noisy and driving me crazy? I needed therapy.
Pulling in a (not too deep) breath I told myself I could do it. I'd survived one. I could survive his one too.
But I'm smarted now. Another 7 years, I said.
Fingers crossed they'll both be off on their travels by then!
I’m such a miserable mother.
Is it just me?
Don't answer that. ;-)