Sleeping over

A sleep over used to be the crown jewel in the birthday party court with a bowling party, roller skating party, and ice cream sundae making at ZIPZ, a local ice cream chain, ranking pretty high up there as well.  I believe I went to my first in 4th grade as a nine to ten year old (DOUBLE DIGITS!) celebration.  Sleeping over involved so many things, milestones, and were exceptional events.  Girls got giddy with excitement thinking about staying up late with their girlfriends, eating lots of junk food all at once, usually with pizza for dinner as a starter and rolling quickly downhill to peanut M&Ms and Doritos as the cramming-to-stay-up-past-1 am treat.  There was lots of dancing, shouting, singing, and crib games.  Secrets told under the sleeping bags about boys kissed or wished for, bust-enlarging exercises ("We must!  We must!  We must increase our bust!") though more for play than actually hoping on my part.  Even then I knew that the parents who hosted these parties were gods, better than mere mortals, because no way on Earth my parents were going to have a bunch of wild-assed banshees over at ours mucking up the place and acting a fool.  (We did actually have one sleepover party and my parents/mom handled it for realz.)

This weekend Lily has two sleepovers.  She is seven years old and I forced her to take a nap after gymnastics this afternoon so she would make it to the second without acting like a monkey.  She didn't want to nap, almost burst into tears at the suggestion which is how I knew she needed to take a nap (that and the confession of a 12:13 am lights out).  She moved all over the room, trying to read and rainbow loom, playing with her hair, and trying to make shadow puppets, when I forced her to climb up on the bed next to her sleeping sister (I'll get to that in a minute).  I lay down behind her with a soft, fuzzy blanket over us and squeezed her little body and pet her hair.  She was out in two minutes.  Glad to see that technique from her toddlerhood still works nicely.  It is Saturday afternoon at 3:30 pm and my entire family is napping in preparation for the sleepover that follows the sleepover.

The parents of both of Lily's sleepover pals are good friends, people I trust and know well.  When she leaves me to be with them, I don't give her safety another thought.  I am confident, comfortable, and thankful.  Lily gets to relax a little from Mommy's strict rules and have a little space from her baby sister's crawling up her back.  She gets to feel like a teenager...oh, wait.  Well, she thinks she does.  She feels punk rock and I want her to.

Virginie and her best girl are prepping for a sleepover of their own.  Not quite a sleepover as they are both 4 1/2 years old and I believe that that is just too early for a sleepover. (I was happy to confirm that her pal's mother was completely in agreement and "on principle" could not permit her baby to stay the night and eat whipped crème from the spray can into her mouth...another time.)  They will wear pajamas and get to play and stay up late and lie down in a little bed and watch movies, read bedtime stories and then, later than usual, Mommy will come and pick up her worn out princess and both 4 1/2 year olds will get to sleep in their own beds.  Kind of like a regular play date for these two just later.

Lily went to her first sleepover when she was six years old and I cried almost the entire time.  I did it in silence, not wanting her or her little sister to see that I was just freaked out beyond what was necessary.  I knew my anxiety was getting the best of me, thoughts of kidnappings and hazings weaving through my brain threatening my sleep and  my ability to breathe.  Then I realized that the parents who hosted were as conscientious as I, nervous about having all these wiggly girls in their care, and basically planned to stay up all night dealing with the pre-tween set and their totally bizarre humor and girl power chants.  I love a girl Lord of the Flies, except for the killing at the end.  Love girl power and energy and pride.  Just not sure I am totes ready for it at mine.

Baby steps.  Two 4 1/2 year olds bugging out in their PJ's? Into it.  I am thinking of cool stuff for them to do.  Fort building, coloring, playing with Barbies, Monster Highs, and Little Ponies.  Lily will be off on her own with her best girl and her cool ass parents living it up, feeling that freedom, knowing that she can come home to Mommy who will take care of her and put her to bed by wrapping her legs around her and boa-constricting her to sleep.  What was once the prize of upper elementary school party time is now a common occurrence, a fun escape from home, a break in the crazy cycle of this aggressively structured childhood.  But they can always come home to Mommy after their little adventures and regal me with dirty-haired, unbrushed-teeth, late-night tales and antics that in the retelling are surely (surely?) wilder than they were when they really happened...on run of the mill, rollin' with the homies-sleepover.


(c)  Copyright 2013.  Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.