go shorty, it’s your birthday
Note to self: when planning to have a sleepover for four seven-year-old girls, why not instead throw a party at the Ritz?
The Ritz party would probably cost a lot more, but it wouldn’t end with me sleeping on my own basement floor.
Or perhaps next year, instead of birthday ice cream cake, we could serve some kind of sugarless, tofutti creation.
Preferably mixed with sedatives.
The Bee is a party animal. The other girls were begging to go to sleep, and she was strapping on her dancing shoes and tipping the DJ to spin In Da Club.
At 2 a.m., I finally dragged my sleepy carcass and a bunch of extra blankets into the basement, lay down next to the Bee, and told her that if she didn’t go to sleep, I was going to make her go to bed in her own room. All of the other girls were asleep before my head hit the pillow.
In all seriousness, though, we had a great time. But I’ll be happy not to repeat it again until next year.
