I Think I Missed the "Sleepover" Chapter When I Read Dante's Inferno In High School

Wow, there is just nothing in the world like hosting sleepovers for your kid's birthday.  Just nothing.  Especially when your kid is 11 years old and a boy, because then you have a home filled to overflowing with excited pre-pubescent boys.  And you hear things like, "Drop the bullet!" and, "Dude, what the heck?! You totally broke it!" , "You fight like a middle-aged man!" and, "Agh! Your foot... It smells!" in amidst all the other screams and taunts that drown each other out like white noise.  Screamy, frightening white noise, punctuated with snorts and thumps.  And farts, sometimes.

My boy - the one being punched in the face.  Color me proud.

I should be nominated for sainthood.  Or committed.  Probably both.

Tonight, I've washed 3 pairs of socks, 6 filthy feet, and I've gone through 5 bottles of soda and 8 Totino's pizzas.  And a glass bottle of wine.  It's bottled sanity, people.  Don't be condescending.  Every time I serve a pizza, things get quiet, but then I run out before the next pizza is done.  Why won't this fucking pizza cook any faster?!

Now they are playing Xbox because it's "too dark to go outside to beat each other up decently."  Damn mosquitoes.  Soon they may be drunk enough to face me in Dance Central.  (Totally kidding, parents of children attending my son's sleepover.  Your kids are definitely not drunk.  They are, however, high on chocolate pie and cherry Pepsi. My bad.)   I do love them, though.  They keep me young.  Or make me old.  One or the other, and the jury's still out on that one.

Freeze Dance.  Moderately less violent than Freeze Kung Fu.

Tomorrow morning, at 6:00 a.m., I plan to wake them up with my best June Cleaver sunshine voice.  June Cleaver mixed with maybe a little Bobcat Goldhwait.  You know, for flavor.  Revenge is sweet.  But I am a nice mom.  I have frozen Eggos and Tang and everything.  And maybe I will even share it with them.