My son turns 11 on Wednesday, and he insisted on having a sleepover party. I tried to entice him with exciting alternatives like viewing Harry Potter on opening day. But he prevailed, with the hard-to-refute "it's only fair" argument, citing that my daughter had a sleepover for her last birthday.
The 6 guests arrived around 6-ish on Saturday night. They ran like wild around the yard playing laser tag, then began throwing water balloons. At around 7, my husband went to pick up the pizzas. I had implored him to have them delivered and not leave me alone with the boys, but damned if he was going to pay a delivery charge.
While he was out, a boy came running. "Someone stepped in the litter box and there's litter everywhere!" he announced. The second floor bathroom, was covered in litter and water from the balloons. The boy who had stepped in the box was super bummed to have litter on his feet. I was in the process of cleaning it up, when I heard the mother of a late arrival calling from the front hall. "Christina? Dalton?" Boys were wilding and there were no parents to be seen.
I went down and explained the litter situation to the mom. At this point, her husband was hit by a water balloon. He did not seem very amused. "Why don't you lock yourself in your room and let Dalton deal with the boys?" she suggested. "That's what I would do."
After the boys ate their pizza (one consumed 5 slices!), they went back to the yard. They were chasing each other, wielding hockey sticks as weapons and hurling soccer balls at each other. "Stop!" I yelled futilely. "Someone is going to get hurt." I went to find backup (Dalton). Upon my return, a boy was lying on the ground. My son had hit him hard with a soccer ball.
"I told you someone would get hurt!" I yelled maniacally. "Look what happened." In the cartoon version, flames would have been shooting from my nose, and smoke from my ears. There was silence for a beat. The boy rose from the ground. "I'm ok," he said. And he began running around again.
After the cake was served, I did retreat to my room. I know when I am beaten. Let me just clarify, these are incredibly nice 11-year-old boys, the best available, with excellent parents. But somehow when they are in a group, the boy energy spins out of control, Lord of the Flies style.
They went to sleep under protest at midnight, then rose at 5 demanding bacon. "No breakfast before 6 am," I said ungraciously. As if I would be going back to sleep. Later, as the dead pig sizzled in the pan, my husband served orange juice. "Chug! Chug! Chug!" the little darlings chanted. They sounded like the boys I lived with in a fraternity sophomore year of college, only less civilized.