When I pick the kids up from school, we spend the drive home talking about their days, the things we see on the road, and rocking out to my “bye-pod” as Funk calls it. On the route home we drive through the “student slums”– low cost housing that’s poorly maintained, rife with vermin, close to campus, and popular among the students. Last night, we passed several houses in which there were quite visibly raucous parties going on. Noise asked, “Mommy, what are those people doing?” I didn’t think it was an appropriate time to educate him on beer pong or Natty Lite, so I just told him that those kids were having a party. “Can we go, Mom? Please?!?” he begged. Ah, no. Not for another 17 years or so, my son.

“I have a great idea. (He often begins sentences this way.) Let’s have our own party!”

I went along.

“What do we need to have our own Jayhawk party, Noise?”

“Marshmallows. We have to have marshmallows. ..And hot chocolate… And we have to be in our pajamas.”

Hmph. Well. I guess I’m game. So, we stopped by the store for supplies for our Rock Chalk Pajama party. We picked up some marshmallows. Some blue-icinged donuts. Some fruit (once I was educated on the apparent fact that you cannot have a party without pears. Why didn’t someone tell me this in my twenties?) Then we scooted on home before the downtown fracas began, to start our party.

As we drove, Noise fretted about what PJ’s he should wear to our party. Incredibles? Too red. Superman? Too Superman-y. Batman? No way, Mom. (Definitely said in a way that implied that I was not very smart.) He finally rested upon some blue Dash pajamas. Because they were blue, like the Jayhawks, and also Dash runs very fast, which is handy in a basketball game.

“I party naked!” yelled Funk from the back seat. “I YOVE to be NAKED! I BE NAKED ALLA TIME!”

OMG. Do I need to start worrying about this already?”

See, Funk loves to be naked. From the moment she gets home, she’s shucking off her clothes, eager to run around the house. She keeps her diaper on, only because she knows that if she takes it off I will expect her to use the potty. And since we are not a fan of using the potty, she does what she can to avoid that. (That’s a whole other frustrating post. Argh to another mother in our preschool class for that one.)

So, I served my party guests iced donuts, hot chocolate with marshmallows, fruit salad (with party pears) and eggs (in a feeble attempt for some kind of nutrition.)

One of my guests was naked, and kind of vurped blue icing all over herself. The other one was obnoxiously loud, gave everyone a detailed recap about the crap he’d just taken, and bitched about the food I served. The night ended with cold medicine for all and the naked girl collapsing in a heaping pile of emotion because she Just. Loves. Us. So. Much.

Huh. Actually?  I guess it was a real party after all.