Really, it's not. This blog contains no nudity, no gratuitous crotch shots, no pole dancing, not even any Motley Crue (and thank god for that).
What this entry IS about is pre-teen girls. And the chaos they bring with them in their cute little purses.
This is my oldest daughter, Tayler, in the red:
|Her friend is not actually blurry.|
And by small gathering, I mean that approximately 4,000 people crammed into my tiny house where the single activity seemed to be "Be loud."
This was supposed to be an outdoor cookout. But it rained all day because the universe feels I need yet more punishment for whatever the hell I did in a past life. So, yeah... rain.
Into my house crammed myself and my husband, two of my brothers, my sister in law, Chris' sister, my cousin, my mom, Chris' parents, and two family friends. Plus the aforementioned 4,000 kids who ranged in age from 4 to 13.
The older girls went upstairs to Tayler's room where they did whatever it is that pre-teen girls do. With glitter. The younger children stayed downstairs where they found the screaming rocket balloons, air horns, and silly string I had bought back when I intended to toss these kids outside. The rocket balloons were created by evil forces. Adults turned every possible shade of red and purple trying to get the damn things to blow up. And the point, of course, was for the kids to let them go and watch them shoot all over the place, immediately followed by the need to blow them up again. I got smacked by a few adults because I was dumb enough to buy the balloons.
Eventually everyone was fed, cake was cut and presents were opened. A better parent would have photos to insert here. I am not that parent.
Then the guests who valued their sanity began to leave. That left me and my brothers and husband. The girls came downstairs. And what happened next...
My husband has hooked our home PC to the TV. Yes. So that all computer thingies can now be done 1000 times larger. Somehow this is important to male people. Anyway, this is what the girls decided to use to watch videos on YouTube. They started off shy. Most of the girls spend enough time in my house that I can comfortably yell at them or make them do things for me, but a few were newcomers. So the music started off appropriate. Slowly, it became louder. And more profanity-laced. Then they decided to listen to sad music.
Because- and I'll admit I get a little lost here- apparently it is a cool girl thing to sit and listen to sad music until you cry, then run to another room (still sobbing) and wait for all the other girls to come find out why you're crying. Then you all cry together. Then you go into sobbing dramatics prompting parental intervention. then you calm down. Repeat.
I was baffled.
My brothers, being helpful sorts, thought that discussions of dead kittens might help. It did not. Then one brother decided to videotape my daughter acting a fool to be used against her at a future date. Good decision, there.
The crying went on for *entirely too long*. Then they switched to listening to music that I would not normally approve of. But I said nothing because I was just so happy the crying was done. Then they all reapplied their make-up and began to call boys. Then they fought and my daughter told them all to go home. Then they made up and she decided to let them stay. Then they hugged. Repeat X 5. Then they ate every. single. edible. thing. in my house. Seriously.
My brothers left, my husband went to bed.
I put the young child to bed.
Then I sat and waited for the girls to crash. Which they did not do until SIX-FREAKING-A.M.
Of course, that small child was up at 8 and went about waking everyone else up.
At noon some other parent called and offered to drive them all to the park so they could play- excuse me, I mean "hang out"- there for a while. I saw my out and took it. When that poor, poor mom arrived I basically shouted "Tag!! You're it!!" and ran away.
But, of course, there was park drama as well and I ended up having to go out to the park and collect my daughter (who now hates all her friends) and bring her home. Where she immediately called all her friends (who she miraculously no longer hates) and invited them back to our house. Luckily they were too tired to walk, because I had absolutely no intention of answering the front door.
I'm not sure where the term "sleepover" comes from, but it was most certainly not coined by any parent who has actually suffered through one. There was no sleeping. It should be called a Loudy-GiggleOver. Or some witty thing that non-sleep-deprived types could think up for me.
My house is trashed. There are food wrappers and glitteriness, and jewels everywhere. I found a pizza box under my couch. Some person's shoes are in my hall. I'm not sure how that person got to the park without them, nor do I care.
I have no idea what boy sleepovers are like. I imagine them as being fun, rousing times involving war games, video games, and junk food. Maybe a sport. No glitter, no make-up, no calling the opposite sex. And certainly no sobbing for hours over NOTHING.
This morning. on my way to drop Taryn off at Pre-K, she asked me...
"Mommy? When can I have a sleepover?"