When I was a kid, I loved sleepovers. My mom didn't let us have them all that often but when she did, she always made them special events filled with games to play and snacks to devour. They were always great fun; noshing on pizza, watching TV and giggling with my best buddies until my mother couldn't take it anymore. Having a good time and driving your mother crazy - what could be better, right?
Until recently, I honestly thought my days partying with an overnight visitor other than my husband were behind me. But I was mistaken. I now have the best sleepover buddy ever, one that puts those popcorn-eating, gossipy fifth-grade playmates to shame.
His name is Jack. He takes up half of a king-size bed, he frequently smacks me in the head with his elbow or fist, and he relishes repeat readings of Fox in Socks. He eats my pizza, wants to watch Toy Story instead of Say Yes to the Dress, and rewards me with disgusting presents in his pants. While his behavior doesn't sound like anyone you would want to spend time with, his bedtime antics don't do much to insure a good night's sleep, and he has the nerve to wake me earlier than any of my previous overnight guests, he is welcome anytime. As long as he accompanies all of the above with that omnipresent smile and incessant need to cuddle up next to me as closely as humanly possible, he can bunk with me anytime he wants to.
Before anyone has the nerve to go there, I know he should be safely tucked away in a crib (which we do not own) or, at the very least, the portable play yard that lives in his uncle's abandoned bedroom but I just can't seem to give up the opportunity to snuggle up with this heat-seeking, footie-pajama-wearing love bug any chance that I can get. Having raised a couple of kids I know all too well how soon he won't want (or be legally able) to share a bed with his Nana,
Until then, I'm going to enjoy every last snuggle I can.
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