A Slumber Party

I've been to a number of slumber parties in my day.

I was usually 12 and they involved crying over the guy in Grease II and not watching Children of the Corn. I seem to recall some games of truth or dare which always ended up with someone asking someone else if they'd gotten what comes at the end of a sentence yet.

Ah, the cusp of puberty. Good times.

The slumber parties in my teens were usually to celebrate someone's birthday. The talk changed from who was already wearing a bra to who we were madly in love with. (A lovely shout out to my dear friends who never riled me about my love for Ralph Macchio.)

And then we graduated school. No more slumber parties and no more pining for dear ol' Ralph. We all grew up. Moved on. Got jobs. Got married. Had kids.

I moved on to supervising a whole lot of slumber parties with not a lot of slumbering, let me tell you.

Today that all changed. The Princess, The Monkey and I had a slumber party tonight. The living room is proof. A double mattress lies across the floor, smushed between the fireplace and coffee table. Junk food litters assorted tables. Bits of popcorn are on the floor. Two little girls are finally slumbering, with stuffies tucked up under their chins. Hannah Montana has mercifully finished singing the blues and there is very little dill pickle dip left.

The Princess and The Monkey sure like that stuff.

And me? I am putting off slumbering. My bed is calling out to me, but that kind of breaks the spirit of a slumber party. My aching joints are taunting me and trying to convince me that if I just set my alarm for 5 am, I could slink downstairs and park myself on the couch with the girls being none the wiser.

But I'll tough it out. I'm brave like that.

Tune in tomorrow when there will be much whining and gnashing of teeth due to lack of sleep and junk food detoxing. Plus I have a feeling I'll have a tip or two on pumping up a deflating air mattress in the dark at 3am.

'Tis the stuff that summer memories are made of.