The Morning After

It’s the morning AFTER Sonny’s 9th birthday slumber party.  And for some reason that old  Stephen Sondheim/Judy Collins song is in my head:

Where are the clowns?
Send in the clowns
[Uh – no.  It’s NOT an 80’s song; It’s late 70’s I believe.  Even so, it’s close enough to prove my “80’s song for every moment of life” theory.  So screw you!  AND the horse you rode in on.  But thanks for asking.]
Ok, ok.  Sorry about that.  I’m a little short on sleep and therefore long on cranky.  So cranky in fact that I’m 100% sure all of the slumber party boys will go home and report that Sonny’s mom is the MEANEST mom.  Ever!   
Which is fine.  I own it.  I recognize that at some point in the evening, I decided to go the “instill fear” route.  And the good cop/bad cop routine devolved into all bad cop, all the time – with the good cop bound and gagged and shoved in the back of the closet, struggling futilely against its duct-tape bonds.
Whatever.  As long as we all know where we stand.  And don’t make me come down there AGAIN to tell you to go to bed.  ‘Cause if I do, I’m gonna call all your mothers to come get you AND make you start walking home!!!!
Too far?  Naw!  It’s important to set expectations and give children some structure.
And also?  Remind me to NEVER do this again.  EVER!  I mean it this time.  NO.  I’m serious.  I REALLY, REALLY MEAN IT!!!  NEVER.  EVER.  AGAIN.
Now I gotta go take a nap.

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