As a devoted parent, I truly adore my kids. They light up my life and bring countless joyful moments, but sometimes, I just need a little space. We do have a fantastic babysitter for date nights (remember those?), but she’s always booked, and her rates can be a bit steep—like planning a small fundraising campaign just to have a night out. So, when fate aligns and the universe grants me the rare opportunity for both of my kids to be invited to a sleepover on the same night, it feels like a monumental win. Cue the happy dance!
Yet, I quickly realize my excitement is often short-lived. My kids have a knack for ruining sleepovers. Don’t let them hear me say it, but it’s true. They thrive at their grandparents’ house, where they’re showered with love and treats, but when it comes to slumber parties with friends? Not so much. They’re way too old to be pulling this, yet they inevitably end up calling home late at night. It always starts with those perfectly timed texts that seem to sense our joy.
Picture this: we’re enjoying dinner, laughing with friends at a nice restaurant—tablecloths and all. Or we might be relaxing at home, indulging in a grown-up movie. Just as we settle into our blissful adult fun, the texts start rolling in.
It usually begins with a desperate plea, “I really want to come home!” They promise this time will be different, and we fall for it, packing them up, dropping them off, and watching them dash into the house without even a glance back. But as soon as the sun sets, the drama unfolds.
The messages start flooding in: “I’m feeling sick,” or “I forgot my charger.” I’ve learned to resist the urge to respond immediately. It’s a trap! They’re fine! Yet, I often find myself replying with a few curt words of encouragement before guilt sets in.
And heaven forbid there’s a whole gaggle of kids involved! The chaos is magnified exponentially. My daughter, who is always innocent in her own mind, claims the drama is all from the other girls. I’ve concluded that a group of girls at a sleepover must be called a “tweenwreck.”
This isn’t just an issue for my daughter; my son has his fair share of tricks up his sleeve. “I have a weird rash,” he might text, prompting an eye-roll from me.
Eventually, one of us gives in—usually my partner—who begrudgingly puts on pants and heads out to rescue our child. Apologies abound to the sleepy host parents as we accept defeat once again.
In front of our kids, we feign indifference, saying it’s no big deal and they can always text if they’re uncomfortable. Truthfully, we’re seething inside. After many failed attempts, we’ve scrapped the idea of traditional sleepovers for now, opting for “almost sleepovers”—a late-night playdate with a firm 9:30 p.m. pickup. The kids keep asking, but I suspect they just aren’t ready yet. Maybe they’ve realized there’s truly no place like home.