I survived my first sleepover, can't say the same for the garage window

Well, I survived my first major sleepover.

Can’t say the same for the garage door window. It fell victim to a hockey puck 10 minutes in. Accidents happen, but it was the second false start to the evening.

The first had been at the centre we rented when we set off the alarm after unlocking the door. It started out as a low drone that was replaced by a wailing-siren-run-to-your-bomb-shelters type of alarm.

Luckily the lady who looks after the centre lives across the street and disarmed the alarm before we were arrested for break end enter.

Since my oldest, who was turning 10, wanted to invite his entire hockey team for a floor hockey party, we decided to go with that first and later on we’ll do something with his friends from school. I said he could invite a few kids for a sleepover. He picked five.

I can do this, I thought to myself.

After the floor hockey the sleepover gang and I head home. On the way they’re sharing ghost stories. Great, now they’re going to have nightmares. When we get home the ghost stories switch to alien encounters and they’ve logged onto an Internet interview about the Roswell UFO ‘incident.’

“Mom, can we go to Area 51?” asks my youngest.

Eventually we drag out the air mattresses and sleeping bags. The kids decide at 11:45 p.m., to watch a movie. I think it’s late but I figure they’ll all drift off to sleep.

I was wrong.

I don’t know why they call them sleepovers since very little sleeping takes place. They should just call them overs. That way when you’ve had enough you could call the parents and tell them, “It’s over!”

But I’ve committed myself to the next afternoon. And so far, so good.

The first person to fall asleep is me, but I’m awoken at 2:30 a.m. because one of the kids is throwing up. I check on him and he says he’s okay and feels better. By now the others have come upstairs where they think it’s funny to watch my youngest child sleep.

(At least someone’s sleeping.)

As they go back downstairs one of them turns and says, “My dad thought we were gonna be asleep by 12:30…ain’t gonna happen!”

Fifteen minutes later one is asleep and the other five are watching a new movie. At least they’ll sleep in come morning, I figure.

Again, I was wrong.

Birthday boy runs into my room at 8:30 a.m. and tells me two of his guests want cinnamon toast for breakfast. I’m not making that I say. We have no cinnamon but the real reason is it sounds like it takes effort and effort is something I don’t have this morning. So pancakes, cereal and fruit it is.

At 11 a.m. the first conflict arises. Birthday boy is complaining about the uninvited guest he wants me to get rid of. The uninvited guest would be his little brother, who by now has given up on visiting Area 51 because of the no trespassing orders.

“They shoot you if you go past the sign,” he says. “Is there an Area 52 instead?” Can’t we just do a beach vacation instead I say.

The party moves outside and we have a picnic lunch by the treehouse. It was as relaxing as it sounds with birthday boy, his five invited guests and the uninvited one. Things then take a decidedly boyish turn when they decide to go hunting for salamanders next to the pond.

One of them asks me when pickup time is. It’s in an hour and a half away.

“Awww…,” he says, to which I ask, ‘Too soon or too late?’ Too soon he tells me, although I say when the moms come we’ll probably visit for a while. “Can you talk for five hours?” he asks. I take that as a reflection that this sleepover is not a dud.

The moms arrive and we talk for one hour. By 3 p.m. the house is empty. I clean up, pick up and think about all the other things I need to do around the house.

The choice was clear. I went to bed. Now that it was over, it was time to get some sleep.

As a postscript to the event, over the next few days all of the sleepover gang ended up with a flu bug…all except for me, the survivor, again. Although I felt awful for the others.

This may not have been my last sleepover, but it will probably be a while before the next one rolls around.