Sleepovers are super cute. I remember making some great memories at sleepovers. That’s a lie. No I don’t. You know why? Because no one sleeps at sleepovers. They might as well call them awake-as-fuck-overs and eat-all-the-sugars-all-at-once-times. And when you don’t sleep, I believe some science says somewhere that your brain doesn’t file shit correctly, especially affecting short and long term memory so no wonder I don’t remember shit. I.hate.sleepovers.
Occasionally I cave and put on my mom-host-big-grandma-panties and let the kids have friends stay, but I am on them like flies on shit to go to bed. But seriously, do they really go to sleep the first, third or seventeenth time you tell them? Nope. If I didn’t think they’d freak out and tell their parents, I might even play Go The Fuck to Sleep narrated by Samuel L. Jackson. But most parents don’t really know me all that well. The ones that do would laugh their asses off, but the others might not get me. That’s just too much explaining. I’m the introverted extrovert or whatever that fancy new phrase is. All that talking is not necessary. Plus my kids are getting to that age where they may or may not stop talking to me one day for capturing their lives the way I do. Thing is, one day they will love these stories about their lives, our lives, my life and my perspective. They may think I’m cool one day when I’m not just MOM. But for now, it’s one of the only things I look forward to, teaching them about life and then one day about me. I will keep on the anti-sleepover bus as long as I can with the occasional exception, but man, they are such a-holes the next day. It’s like someone took your kid and dipped them in hatorade, gave them little emotional daggers and grenades and then brought them to the edge of your last fucking nerve and left them there to tap dance. Seriously, f*** sleepovers.