Sadly, the passage of time has a funny way of making us forget how painful the past was.

And so a few weeks ago, our 9-year-old asked us if she could invite a few of her friends over for a tent-slumber party in the backyard. The occasion was the celebration of her passage into double digits. They’d be no trouble, she said. They’d all be in the backyard all night and her mom and I wouldn’t have to worry about a thing, she said.

And so we fell for it. We said, invite a few friends over and have a ball.

Unfortunately, our 10-year-old felt that inviting one friend for each year she had lived would be an appropriate way to celebrate. And so we had eleven 10-year-olds. They all showed up at our front door to supposedly spend the night in a large camping tent in our backyard. Also along for the ride was our appointed security force: a couple of 13-year-old females whom I felt certain would keep the peace among all the younger ones. Imagine my disappointment when the two 13-year-olds actually made more noise deeper into the night than the eleven 10-year-olds.

The two teens — one of which happened to be our very own — who had invaded our house were, in fact, being stared at all evening by all
these 10-year-old girls. The younger girls showed great concern when
staring at the older pair, wondering if they, too, would turn out to be
that weird when they became teen-agers.

The fun began about 6 o’clock on a Friday night. Busloads of 10-year-olds were dumped in our front yard. I’m pretty certain at least two or three of them weren’t even invited, but came anyway when they heard the ruckus and saw the pizza delivery guy.

By 6:05, the entryway to our entire house was completely bedecked in sleeping bags, bedrolls, night gowns, birthday presents, and bag after bag after bag of nail polish and lipstick. There’s apparently something about the makeup of a 10-year-old that makes the wearing of makeup an essential part of one’s life. To a 10-year-old, if it glitters, it IS gold. A 10-year-old would rather have 15 tubes of purple, glittery lipstick than a full scholarship to the college of her choice.

At 6:10, this team of 10-year-olds, all dressed in shorts, combed the neighborhood. They were all screaming and singing along with a blaring CD player. What came from the radio was either NSYNC, the Backstreet Boys or 98 Degrees. I have no idea which, though I personally am convinced all three groups are made up of the same guys who just change their names and re-dye their hair a different color before each album and concert. Look at them: THEY ALL LOOK ALIKE. THEY ALL SOUND ALIKE. THEY ALL DO THE SAME WEIRD THING WITH THEIR HANDS AND ARMS. (If you ever feel like getting on your daughter’s bad side, try to get her to buy into this. But if you do, I’m not responsible for your safety.)

By 6:15 that night, a bizarre cold front blew in and the first chilling thought that went through my mind was, “Oh no, it’s going to be too cold for them to sleep in the tent and I’m gonna wake up in the morning with 13 adolescent females on my living room floor.” I was stilled with fear.

As it turned out, I was right. They all did end up slumbering on the living room floor. But instead of making a decision to all come inside at the same time and proceed to nod off into slumberland in unison, it was, of course, much more complicated. One by one they traipsed, in and out the back door several hundred times from 7 p.m. to 3 a.m., until finally, suffering from complete exhaustion, they continued to scream and yell at each other at a more tolerable level until the last one finally fell.

By 8 p.m. that Friday, we could no longer see our living room floor — and the strangest thing about that is — they were ALL outside playing. What they had left behind was a boatload of torn wrapping paper, dirty plastic forks, chocolate smeared paper plates and half-empty cups containing grape soda that would surely stain the blackest of carpets.

As the night dragged on —and drag it did — my ears were treated to the same NSYNC video 53 times if it was once. Though I was sitting in the next room, after the unending samplings of this 74 minute treasure trove of teen talent, I seriously began to question both my sanity and my desire to hear anything EVER AGAIN.

I am happy to report that all 13 of the people at the party — Mrs. P, The Boy and myself excluded — made it through with our sanity intact. When we finally got rid of the last of them the next morning, what was left was not a pretty site: A home that resembled a used Army barracks, an unused tent that was damp throughout, and items that virtually every girl attending had somehow forgotten to take home.

Not only did they leave behind games, but also shoes, pajamas, eye glasses and, as far as the eye could see, waves and waves of purple, glittery lipstick.

We could’ve had a garage sale as many things as they left behind. And the first thing I’d sell really cheap: any music video that had a cute boy on the box who claimed to be a singer.

Mrs. P wanted to send home party favors; I figured a night away from home, six pizzas, five bottles of soda, a large birthday cake, gallons and gallons of glitter, and a night of endless boytoy music was favor enough for all of them.

My request for a party favor was even easier: All I asked was that it be over.

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