Commentary by Danielle Wilson
Recently, I had between 11 and 15 teenage girls asleep in the basement. I lost track of the headcount as soon as they swarmed the mini-chocolate fountain with sharp wooden skewers and marshmallows.
It was survival at that point people, so I quickly fled to the relative peace and quiet of the upstairs, shoved a beach towel into the crack at the base of the door (to block both the high-pitched squeals of delight and the overpowering scent of floral deodorant/perfume) and offered up a few Lenten Hail Mary’s to ensure I was alive to see the sun rise on the morrow.
Success! I awoke the following morning actually feeling rested. Of course, I had slept fitfully until about 2 a.m. when I couldn’t take the stair-running or the kitchen-banging any longer. But I was smart this year. Instead of channeling “Mommie, Dearest” in full facial mask mode and confronting the masses directly, I simply texted my darling daughter to have everyone prep for shut down. She quickly replied “Gucci,” and I congratulated myself on using technology to communicate with my newly minted 13-year-old and not embarrassing her with my usual post-midnight, pyscho-mom-in-a-bathrobe antics.
I don’t really have a point to this story except to ask for parenting props on enduring a slumber party of epic proportions. Did I mention these are all competitive dancers? And that within 30 minutes of their arrival this hormonal plague of locusts had already drank and discarded four large bottles of orange Fanta, plowed their way through three bags of Doritos and were clamoring for cheese pizza while attempting to shish-kebob-me on their way to chocolaty goodness? It was only 5:30 p.m.! I honestly can’t even tell you what happened for the remainder of the evening, because like I noted earlier, I sequestered myself in a happy place until I could legitimately claim fatigue and go to bed.
But I did just take a peak, and I can tell you my basement floor looked like a makeshift disaster shelter, with little cocooned bodies lying everywhere. And FYI, I counted 14 before the smell did me in.