Sketches of a Slumber Party
Our fourth and youngest child celebrated her 14th birthday this week. I was expecting her to want a huge, loud party in contrast to her pandemic birthday last year, which, sadly, consisted of spending her day entirely with her family, much like all the other days during the pandemic.
But no—she wanted a sleepover. A run of the mill stay-up-late-giggling-and-gossiping overnight with a handful of her besties.
It reminded me of sleeping over at friends’ houses when I was growing up in the 80s: greasy pizza, hours of watching MTV or playing Pac Man. We inevitably would pull out a Ouija board or repeat “Bloody Mary” into a mirror when the house was dark and quiet. There was always that one girl who would fall asleep first, who would fall victim to childish pranks like getting warm water on her wrist, or getting her bra stolen and stashed in the freezer. I would force myself to stay awake at these parties, mostly because I was fearful that if I were to sleep, the other girls would put their greasy pizza hands on my tiny, barely bra-sized bra. The horror!
Staying at a friends’ house is an exercise in seeing just how your house stacks up to someone else’s. I always paid attention to the differences: the cadence of the way the parents talked to each other—or not, if the parents were divorced, another novelty to me. The oven or microwave made different dings and beeps. Anyone, in my eyes, led a life of luxury if they had a refrigerator that dispensed cold water and ice cubes. The pattern of the dishes, the brand of cereal … all the little building blocks of a household that was similar to mine, but decidedly not mine. A slumber party is the first glimpse, I think, of finding out what you’ll miss when you grow up and leave home, those rhythms of your house that you take for granted until you’re in someone else’s living room.
I remember the unfamiliar scent of stale cigarettes coming from throw pillows, or just the intoxicating aroma of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese that would float from a friend’s kitchen, a delicacy that wasn’t allowed in our home. We were a homemade mac and cheese family, and “fake” processed foods were foods I lusted after on a daily basis. Oh, Twinkies! Oh, Hostess Cupcakes and Cap’n Crunch! Even some Totino’s pizza rolls! Those were decadent culinary mirages that I couldn’t seem to grasp during my hungry childhood years, except at slumber parties.
For my daughter’s birthday sleepover, there was pizza, a movie, and cake pops. My daughter efficiently planned the evening, making lists of supplies that I dutifully got from the store. Fundamentally, does the basic structure of a slumber party ever change? Instead of Atari, the kids played Wii. But there was talking and giggling. Secrets were most likely shared. I fell asleep to the comforting, far-off sound of teen voices, knowing that they would be awake hours after I drifted off to sleep. I wondered if they tried to scare each other, too: conjuring beasts or ghosts from the creak of floorboards or the tapping of the water heater.
In the morning, we made bacon and waffles. When I approached the table to bring more food, the conversation died down, only to crescendo again as I headed back to the kitchen to get more juice. I get it. The Mom at a slumber party is support staff only. I know my place.
The day after a slumber party, my daughter is tired, her extroverted personality satiated for a brief time. After all that personal interaction, the following day is quiet and slow; for me too, having successfully fed everyone while staying as invisible as possible. I wonder how the other kids compared the sounds and smells of our house to theirs. I’m guessing they went back to their own home with a new appreciation for the soft familiarity of their own households, like slipping back into a pair of comfortably worn jeans. As it should be.
