Insanity

I once heard that the definition of insanity was dong the exact same thing more than once and expecting a different result. (Strangely enough, this is the same principle that leads to questions like, “You're pregnant? How did that happen?”)

My son, when asked what he wanted to do for his eleventh birthday, (I was praying it wouldn't be a party at Chuckie Cheese, I hate that rat, but kids seem to love him.) didn't hesitate. He wanted to have a sleepover with a few close friends.

You might recall he had a sleepover with a friend this summer that ended up with an in depth discussion of Creationism vs Evolution that morphed into a Star-Wars-themed analysis of wormholes. You also might be thinking that this lead to the topic of this blog. But, once I heard about the plan, I had some hard questions for my wife and son.

“How many is a few?”

“Two, maybe three,” my son answered.

“Will I be allowed to drink?

“Of course,” my wife answered

“Can we add rum to their drinks if they get out of hand?”

“Dad!” That was my son.

“I'm just kidding.” (No, I wasn't)

So, I was perfectly fine with the sleepover concept. The party would start at six pm. My wife and I could handle two additional kids until ten pm. We had video games, movies, a tree house, a large yard, and dek hockey equipment. No, I was not at all worried about the party.

The part about doing the same thing more than once and expecting a different outcome was... Well there's no delicate way of putting it. My wife.

I should have gotten a clue as my son and I were driving home from dek hockey (Yes, I'm coaching again this season, so expect another Herb blog post.) and my wife called. “Could I pick up one of my son's friends?” She was running a little late getting last minute things for the party.

This is the same woman that volunteered to chaperone my son's kindergarten Christmas party and somehow, scheduled a root canal for the same day. Of course, the root canal was scheduled so it wouldn't interfere with her stuff for the party, but just to be safe, could I maybe be ready to run over to the school. Shockingly, after her root canal, she didn't think it would be a good idea to go the Christmas party. So, I got to start off Christmas being traumatized by a roomful of five-years hopped up on sugar and Christmas anticipation.

So... My son and I picked up his friend. I asked my son how many of his friends were going to come over. Two or three had morphed to five or six. I still wasn't worried. In dek hockey, I can manage twelve armed and armored kids. (If you're looking for a mental image, think of a tuna in the middle of a shark feeding frenzy...)

As the kids started to arrive, I couldn't help but notice how quickly the parents drove off. Their derisive laughter wasn't giving me much confidence. Eventually, I was looking into the frantic eyes of five boys that had been looking forward to a sleepover for a long time.

“Ok guys, here are the options.” As the parental leader, (since my wife was still out getting those essential last minute items) it was up to me to keep things organized and under control. “We have video games, movies, dek hockey or you can play in the tree house.”

Here was my first mistake. If you give a group of boys several options, they will choose all of them, each with a different choice. So, they did all of them. At once. And... it worked. They had rules that made no sense to anyone over thirteen.

When my wife finally made it home from the last minute shopping (Apparently, they grew the actual flour that they then ground for the cake.) she was ready to take over the social activities.

“Did you feed them?”

“Yep.”

“Where's the pizza?”

“Outside.”

“What? Why are the plates still on the table?” In her senility, she'd gotten out plastic cups and plates for them to eat off. When the pizza arrived, I did what any sane father would do. I waited until they ran by in a fairly good re-enactment of Lord of the Flies. Then I put the pizza boxes and drinks on the driveway. They would sense their primary food source. Sure enough, I checked back later and the pizza was gone. I knew they weren't hungry because there were only a few teeth marks on the pizza boxes.

“Where are they?”

“Outside.”

“What are they doing?”

Sometimes you have to wonder why mothers are even allowed around sleep-overs with their naïve questions. Next would be something equally inane like, “Are they all still alive?”

Just then, five overly excited boys ran by in a blur. There was a tint of purple so I knew my daughter was still keeping up with them. The primal screams of “KILL HIM!” made my wife blanch enough for me to remind them of the primary rule. “No killing, guys!”

That was more a guideline. I'd made sure each parent knew of my 80-20 rule. As long as 80% of the kids were still whole in the morning, it was a success. With 5 kids, that gave me a whole one to work with. So far, I had plenty of wiggle room, but we still had to get them to sleep and my wife had canceled my hotel reservation for the night...

Pride

"I got this, dad," my son assured me.

"Are you sure?" Even though he was only ten- years old, there was no doubt in his voice.

"Trust me. I got it."

"Trust me" was apparently one of my mom's triggers when I was growing up. To hear her tell (that's old fashion talk from her part of the country. They also say warsh instead of wash.) every time I said that she either started calling 911 or got the bandages out. (I'd like to point out that never once did the fire department have to make it all the way to our house after I said, "Trust me. I know what I'm doing.")

"What are you going tell her?"

"Dad..." I'd imagine Tiger Woods used the exact same tone when his dad asked him how he was going to tee off in his first Master's tournament.

"Well?"

After a long, exasperated sigh (Which he gets from his mother.) he explained. "I'm going to tell her I called my friend and he wants to play at the park."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What time."

"5."

"What if she wants to go earlier?"

"I'll tell her they are busy until then. If she want to leave too early, then I'll tell her I forgot something in the house. When she comes in looking for me, I'll tell her I can't find my stuffed dog and she'll see it on the table and I'll say I didn't look there." (Every lie needs an element of truth. There is no doubt he would not look in the most obvious place.)

I was proud of him. The keys to a good lie were the details and keeping it simple.

Now, I just needed to get everyone to the park, get the food and drinks and some cover in case it rained. Operation "Surprise Mommy" was underway.

Everyone had a part to play. My son was the initial liar, my daughter who can not keep a secret was the truth-telling-liar and found out how much fun it is to trick mommy. She "let out" that Sunday was a surprise pizza party (She was positive that Chuckie Cheese would be the perfect venue cause that 1000 ticket card in the cyclone was wicked awesome. And she could tell mommy how to get it.) My son and I both shushed her and my wife pretended not to hear. Later she told me how my daughter spilled all the details:

“She told me we're going to have pizza at the park.”

“Oh?” Since my daughter's idea of keeping a secret was to only yell it once, I figured she'd blown her part.

“Don't worry. I won't say anything to Ann.”

“Oh?” I tried to keep the worry out my voice and sound irritated that the small surprise had been ruined.

“It's OK. It'll be fun to have just us.” (If I wasn't so proud of how well they'd taken to deceiving their own mother, I'd be worried about how they were both naturals at lying...)

I had the people invited, the food bought (And I even remember the cake) and a place if it rained. Now, I just needed to get everything there without my wife realizing something was up. Getting out of the house was easy, I just needed “to make a quick trip to Lowes” for some supplies. That would be good for at least an hour.

While my son and daughter kept my wife distracted, a few of us met at the park and got things together. After the third text message from my wife, I figured it was probably time to go get her. Especially since the last message said she was getting ready to head to the park. I called and said I was on my way home, I'd had a little accident at the store and would tell her about it when I got home, but everything was ok.

Once home, I limped in and explained a row of doors had fallen over and jammed my knee. It was fun watching her go from we're-late-and-I'm-pissed-off to concerned about how bad my knee was. She made sure I got to the car without further damaging my knee. All the while telling the kids, “Daddy really hurt his knee. Be careful.” To my daughter, she had a special message, “No, you can't jump on his back!” On the way to the park, she planned how to take me to the hospital for x-rays if it didn't stop hurting soon. She even found a close parking space so I wouldn't have to limp as far. (And for the record, no, I didn't really feel any guilt about tricking her.)

When we got to the pavilion and she saw all her friends and then noticed I wasn't limping any more, she had the nerve to call me a big, fat liar. At least my kids are learning from the best.