Sleepover

When I was a little girl, I had a best friend named Ali, and we would spend almost every day together after school, and every weekend together. Grocery shopping, golfing days, clothes shopping, visiting relatives; no matter what our moms were up to, it was pretty much a guarantee one of them would always have Ali and Emma in tow.

Myself and Ali - we used to love sleepovers. Or, at least, I used to love the idea of sleepovers.We would make plans to have popcorn, rent a movie, make a tent fort, play dress-up, stay up 'til midnight and then sneak downstairs for a midnight feast. And with each new plan, I'd grow more and more excited. We'd break the news to our moms, listen to the usual warnings and bribes, and then scramble joyfully into the back of Ali's mom's little purple car ready for our adventure. 


Unfortunately, I almost always wussed out. It was worse when I was a young child, after my dad left. As I grew older and became a "tween" (except then it was just called being eleven) I was more able to cope with the separation anxiety. But oh boy, at eight years old I would wake up at one am in a strange bed in an unfamiliar room and suddenly the world was ending. I can remember poor Ali's mom sitting on the bed stroking my hair back off my wet cheeks and promising me we'd call my mom first thing in the morning and I'd see everything was okay. Sometimes it did the trick, sometimes it didn't. 


I'm sure this happened plenty, but I only have one clear memory of my mother talking to me before such an evening commenced. I was standing at the front door with my backpack and Muffin teddy in hand, and she crouched down in front of me and said in her calm, serious voice, "Are you sure you want to sleep at Ali's tonight? You're going to have lots of fun, and you're going to love being with Alison, but you have to promise me you won't get upset in the middle of the night and need me to come get you. If you're really sure you want to go, that's great. But if you're not sure, that's okay too. Just tell me now, before it's too late."
I shook my head emphatically and swore, "I'm sure I want to go. I'm not going to be sad tonight. I'm really sure."
My mom nodded her head and kissed me goodbye, and wished me a good time. 
And that night, I woke up sobbing again, and my poor mother had to drive all the way over and pick me up at God knows what time, and bring me home. 


But that's the great thing about being a kid. No matter what time of day or night it is, you can just make that call and twenty minutes later your mom is standing on the doorstep with that knowing look on her face, ready to scoop you and Muffin up and take you home again to where it's safe.


I guess being a mom is a tough job sometimes. But sometimes, so is just being a big girl.