On Saturday night I hosted a sleepover party for nine eleven-year-old boys, using 'hosted' in the sense of 'survived'. I was offered $2 by my son to be the 'paid waitress', an offer I accepted as a) it was his birthday, and b) I'm pretty much his servant anyway, so it's better to be paid $2 than nothing. What I didn't realise, however, was that my son required me to wear something 'pink and frilly' for the job, and that I would be addressed as 'slave' for the duration of the party, which is how I came to be looking like this:
The boys arrived at about 5.30pm and played happily for a while (using 'happily' in the sense of 'with vigour and intermittent destruction'). I was fully prepared, having stockpiled with chips, drinks and lollies for the boys, and alcohol and valium for me.
The boys played Wii whilst my husband went to get pizza. After 30 minutes (27 of which I spent stressing that he was going to keep driving and never return), both husband and pizza arrived, and the kids sat at the table and ate. And when I say 'ate', I mean like ravenous, possibly rabid dogs. They tore at their pizzas, bits of cheese drooling from their madly masticating mouths. I don't know whether their mums actually feed them, but clearly these boys were in need of a good meal.
The kids then watched a DVD, pausing only to shoot bizarre questions at each other. "Who knows how to get out of a locked room using only a rope?" "Who knows how to kill a man with one blow?" "Whose parents have had sex?" Strangely, whilst all nine answered "ME!" to the first two questions, only one answered "Mine" to the third.
"Ha! Well let me set you straight...." I started, before I was interrupted by my husband.
"Whose parents have had sex in the past fortnight?" he asked. Silly man. Like any of them had. Right? RIGHT???
We had cake, which was excellent, particularly the icing - the only part any of the boys actually ate. And then they announced that it was time for the Wrestling Tournament. Fine, I thought. Wii Wrestling. Not a problem.
But no. Not Wii Wrestling. WRESTLING Wrestling. You know, like with arms and legs. Kind of different, if you ask me.
Happily, there was only one minor injury, and it was inflicted on the son of one of my friends, so I knew the risk of litigation was low. By that stage it was nearly 10pm and I was in the fetal position in my room, so my husband herded the kids into their sleeping bags (except for one child who had forgotten his, and had to be herded between the pink sheets of my daughter's bed, much to his horror and disgust).
By 10.15 all the lights were out and the kids were fast asleep. Using 'the kids' in the sense of 'me, with earplugs jammed in and the bedroom door closed'. And in the morning, the boys were still there, and ravenous again, which made me suspect they had either all been out cavorting all night, or that eleven year old boys just get really, really hungry.
Either way, the party is over, I survived with my sanity (though, sadly, not dignity) in tact, and the tutu has been retired for another year.
And next year, I'm asking for $3.50.