Sleeping over with the enemy. (original) (raw)

If you�re reading this, it means I didn�t make it.

I knew I was going to a place that no man had emerged from alive, or if living, sane, but I thought I was different. Was it arrogance? Probably. Stupidity? Definitely. A bad case of athlete�s foot? Yep, but I got some ointment for that. Whatever the cause, I agreed to help host a sleepover for 9 seven-year-old girls. What a fool this mortal be.

I was caught in a trap actually. Our group of friends being teachers forces us to be in a seasonal birthday trend that there is really no escaping. You see, after putting up with you all�s kids for nine months, it takes a couple of months of decompression before the thought of bringing more into the world seems desirable. So late July till the start of school is our natural mating season. It�s a pretty small window, but we seem to be genetically programmed to make good use of it. Teachers are a lot like salmon, except without all the swimming and grizzlies eating us.

All of our kids are born in April and May, our people have a birthday party every weekend during this time, usually with a recurring theme. This year, somebody thought sleepovers would be a good idea. That somebody is now living in Arizona under the federal witness relocation plan because the rest of us put a mob hit out on her.

After I told the wife my plan of leaving that night, and after she quit beating me with a rake, I was appointed entertainment director. Okay, I can do that, I thought. I just need some time-consuming activities. Let�s see, prison tattooing seminar? Nope, too messy and could cause party to degenerate into gang warfare. Tequila drinking contest? No, 7 year olds are mean drunks. Roundtable discussion of 21st literary theory? But a deconstructionist might show up and their pseudo-nihilist approach to author intention gets on my nerves.

So I started with the classics. We�d have a pi�ata so as to encourage violence against flamboyant animals and cartoon characters; you can�t have enough of that in society. A case of silly string. Not sure why, but kids love anything out of aerosol cans that they can spray in each other�s faces. Note to self � tell wife not to include cans of mace in goody bags.

That eats up about 20 minutes, so I needed something that will take a while and wear them out a bit. I came up with a treasure hunt that was a series of riddles that had them run the length of the property several times. Brilliant, except for the fact I stole the riddles from �The Da Vinci Code.� It was a lot of confused kids standing around in the backyard as I shouted, �What do you mean you don�t know the Aramenian word for �wheelbarrow� the Knights Templar used as a password? What are they teaching you in school these days?�

That messed with their heads for an hour, then I handed them over to the wife for feeding, birthday singing, and gift shredding. These kids are at an age where the gifts are placed in the middle of a room and it looks like a cow carcass being lowered into a piranha pond, which looks cool except that I was supposed to take the thank you note notes. At that speed, it�s impossible to tell who gave what. I just wrote �Barbie� by each name.

Things were calming down when the wife uttered a statement to which, weeks later, I still haven�t come up with the proper response. �Honey, with this many girls, I may need your help doing their nails.� Obviously, she had suffered a small stroke and lost the rational part of her brain. First of all, my clumsy hands would make them all look like Iraqi voters. Then there�s the polish fume huffing temptation. Not to mention that it�s DOING NAILS! What, is she trying to get me kicked out of the guy club? I�ve just re-upped my dues.

My hissy fit got me out of it and then it was bedtime story time. My kids are used to my stories, but the others were a bit nonplussed. We all know how unpleasant nonplussed girls are.

I�m great at starting stories � the kids are the characters in magical adventures � but I always seem to talk myself into narrative corners and the whole thing implodes under it�s own illogical weight. �So the nine girls have entered the magic cave and are surrounded by mushroom people when they hear the heavy stomping coming down the tunnel and�.hmmm�.how about President Chester A Arthur and�let�s see� and funny man Flip Wilson entered. Yeah, and with big bowls of clam chowder. The end. Good night.�

I made a beeline to my bedroom before the nonplussed questions started.

It was a good run, but a night of giggling, squealing, and endless potty trips pushed me over the edge. I�ve already got a theme for next years� parties � a marathon version of the quiet game. Parents, please plan accordingly.