Joseph turns ten years old tomorrow. To celebrate this milestone in my youngest son's life, I came up with the brilliant plan to invite a bunch of his friends over, go to CiCi's pizza for lunch, the movies, then back to our house for cookie cake and a sleepover.
Did I mention he's my
youngest son? Shouldn't I know better by now? It was like trying to hold onto a handful of greased, crack-addicted worms.
Usually no one comes to my kids' birthday parties. Maybe three or four, tops. So when Joe wanted enough invitations to invite his entire class, plus a few others, I thought, "No problem."
They started arriving at 11:15 and before it was all said and done, eight pre-teen boys showed up on my doorstep; my little darling made it nine. That's the equivalent of forty-two in kid numbers.
Because some were early - all of you who know and love me will understand this - I was still in my bathrobe, fresh from my shower, with wet hair and half of my makeup on while greeting parents and welcoming their children to my home.
In a desperate bid to save time, I ran two of the little buggers off the computer in my bedroom and popped into the bathroom to finish my makeup. Then I realized my clothes were still on the bed. I cracked open the bathroom door and listened down the hallway to make sure no one was around. Not a peep. So I threw open the door and raced into my bedroom, naked as the day I was born, where - to all of our horror - the two boys I'd run off earlier were back in my room on the computer.
Let's just say an expletive was screamed, a new world record for landspeed while running backwards and doubled over was set, and two ten-year old boys are probably now suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Hopefully their parents will never figure out why they shudder and go pale whenever a computer powers up.
But I digress. Where was I? Oh, that's right, noon and nine fourth-graders at my house. (FYI - I was finished getting ready by noon.)
So, no problem, right? I had a back-up adult on standby for just such an emergency. Whipping out my handy dandy cell phone, I confidently text messaged an S.O.S. to my go-to guy. Except my back-up had forgotten another event he had to attend and wouldn't be able to get to my house for over an hour.
Yippee-skippee.
The boys were swinging from my fruit tree in the backyard, hurling japanese persimmons at the house and each other to see which made the coolest splatter pattern. When the fruit was gone, they discovered and ransacked one of the storage sheds. There were gutteral screams peppered with crashing and banging. The sounds coming from outside were even worse. But it was when I heard one of them say, "Hey, I found some nails!" that I decided to give myself a pedicure.
Nine minutes had elapsed.
I looked out the window to make sure no one was bleeding. Then, armed with fingernail polish remover, toenail clippers, and a pumice stone, I locked myself in the bathroom. I did my toenails, fingernails, looked out the window again, and checked the clock. Thirty minutes to go.
Things had gone quiet and it made me nervous. I decided it probably wasn't a good idea to leave them unsupervised anymore, so I told them to come inside. They came trampling into the house, eighteen muddy shoes across cream-colored carpet, and were delighted to tell me that we had "sex books" in our storage room.
What???
I wouldn't know. I've never been back there. Great. Now I'd let them run rampant in a porn house in my backyard. I must have looked as mortified as I felt, because one kid piped up and said, "They weren't magazines with naked pictures, they were sex books."
Ah, maybe this could be salvaged yet. "Those were probably romance novels." Good save! "Yeah, they were definitely romance novels, not sex books."
The kid looked at me with jaded eyes and snorted, "I've never heard of a romance novel named 'Sex on the Beach' before." Who was this guy?
It was time for a distraction. I'm a writer - how hard could it be? I had them sit around the couches in a circle and we played "Add a Word to the Sentence" until my relief arrived. Finally.
By comparison, the trip to CiCi's and the movies was pretty uneventful. Although I must say I now know what a mother hen feels like herding her brood.
All in all - except for the naked flashing and age-inappropriate reading material - it wasn't so bad as far as ten year-old birthday parties go.
And I don't think I'll have to worry about any more kids coming to my house for a while.
