C.O.B.C.s & Birth Control
I spent this past Friday night and Saturday morning with 9 little girls. Yes, I did this on purpose and without any coercion. I had promised Ari that I would attend and help with her birthday/slumber party.
Demographically here�s the break down of my C.O.B.C.s (Crew of Baby Chicks):
6 - 7 year olds
2 � 10 year olds
1 - 5 year old
This morning I did not want to wake up. I felt tired. Not the run of the mill, run down from the daily 9 � 5 grind kind of tired, but rather, the good kind of tired. That same tiredness made me smile to myself, while yawning and stretching my way through each activity.
For those of you who don�t have children (I don�t), I learned, that little people have unlimited storehouses of energy. When in a group environment, they have a tendency to speak using their �playground voice� � no matter how many times you remind them to speak using their �inside voice�. Shrill, high pitched yet piercing, the likes of which can best be described as crescendos of The Chipmunks: Alvin, Simon and Theodore.
I am quick to admit that the group dynamics fluctuated within my C.O.B.C.s more robustly than the daily Dow Jones Average. I also learned, that it is not humanly possible for one adult with 2 eyes & 2 ears, to watch and hear everything that is said/done with this many Lilliputs around. In all earnest, I did try to do my very best, and at 2 a.m. when the last little person had surrendered to sleep, I began mixing drinks for the adults who�d stopped by to chat and see if I had �survived� my first slumber/birthday party experience.
I never watched the show �Survivor�, but I�ve come away from this weekend�s activities with a newfound respect for the show�s participants.
My role as the adult party girl, required that I be available to talk, share advice, give out many a hug, resolve a seemingly never ending stream of disagreements, and play � this weekend I was initiated into the world of Polly Pocket. Never having played with doll babies or Barbie, I�d only seen Polly and her miniature plastic gang [friends and their pets] on t.v. commercials. I can tell you one thing: I DON�T like Polly Pocket, at ALL. This chick comes accessorized with soft gel like plastic outfits, jewelry and accoutrements. The long and short of it, is that Polly Pocket is Barbie in Training.
*Sigh* Just what the world needs, another B.I.T.* *
My C.O.B.C.s were amazed that someone as old, (I�m 32) as me, knew about the Power Puff girls, Jimmy Neutron Boy Genius, Cow and Chicken, Pinky & the Brain, and Johnnie Bravo. Enjoying my newly awarded �cool status�, they drew pictures of birthday cakes adorned with 32 candles. There was a great deal of laughter, because each drawing was a satirical rendering of a birthday cake, uniquely, and grossly exaggerated, just for me. I must have been told at least several dozen times that I was older than ALL of their mothers. *Gasp* Imagine how surprised I was to learn, that all of their mom�s are 20 � 22 yrs of age. Saturday morning, nearly each girl mentioned to her mom, that I was older than she was. *What a laugh, it was priceless comedy.* All of the mom�s took it in stride. We nodded and winked at one another silently.
Far be it for me, to ruin their personal illusions. *Note: The C.O.B.C.'s moms range in age from 40 - 50yrs.*
My C.O.B.C.s were stupefied to learn, that I�m not married, and that I don�t have any children. One Lilliputian told me that if I didn�t �hurry up�, I�d grow up to live all alone and sit in a rocking chair for the rest of my days. She did make me laugh, and no, I never got hurt feelings over the advice any of them shared with me about the direction they perceived my life and future to be heading. They were (as they reminded me), making sure that I�d be okay. How considerate of my sweet little darlings.
This weekend, I enjoyed myself in a way I�d never experienced before.
Keeping company with little people, especially the lively, intelligent, robust, unabashed group, I had the pleasure of being with, IS the single most effective method of birth control I know - I swear.