My son’s best friend came over for a sleepover this weekend. Picture my two, plus two bonus kids building box forts and chasing each other around an old, cramped, 1850s house while four cats, a dog with dementia, and two adults in their thirties do their best to avoid being run over by the howling hordes.
It was beautiful.
I mean, sure it was loud, and sure, it’s Monday morning and I’m staring at a mess that will take me hours to clean up, and I’ve still got a headache and I don’t know how we managed to dirty every dish despite the dishwasher running non stop, but none of that matters.
The children were happy. They ate pancakes. They laughed and played and went mad with excitement. They spent the weekend laughing and enjoying their childhoods, unburdened by the kinds of expectations kids have to deal with.
They didn’t have to think about homework, or worry about picking up after themselves. They didn’t get repeatedly told to find their chill, to calm down, to use their inside voice. And yeah, it was a lot on the adults, but for one weekend, they got to be free.
What is a few extra dishes and some cardboard and vacuuming once in a while if it means the kids get a break?
It was worth every minute.
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