Sleepover it—Again!

The program was announced one week ahead when friend confirmed reservations for a weekend trip to attend a wedding in Chennai sans husband and children and discovered that husband too would be touring out of town, the kids whooped and swooped in on the opportunity for a sleepover. Every single day they met in the school, they signaled each other with one less finger till finally they were down to the last one.

On the D-Day Friday, I arrive at school early, to pick up the eager-to-live-it-up-over-the-weekend girls, so that they get as much time together as possible—and I lock myself out of the car! Woe is me—this is the third time since November! But this time I am more prepared. I walk into the school after I place a call to daughter’s piano pal/teacher, who laughs his head off, asks me how I manage to do such crazy things and proceeds to collect the spare key from adopted daughter’s house (what would I do without all the people who have adopted me along the way?).

Like a responsible parent I collect my children—1,2,3…. ""So YOU will be taking the children home", asks a teacher? Err…yes. My own flesh and blood looks up sharply at the “Err” and says, “Mimi, did you lock yourself out of the car?” Without waiting for a response from me, she turns to her friends and says, “Ok, she’s locked herself out, we will just have to do something till she figures out how to get the duplicate key”. I expect condescending looks and complaining whines from the group but instead I get very loving grandmotherly looks of disapproval. Even the principal (whose name sends shivers down the little spines around her) indulges me with a hug, as my girls look on at the scene with awe. Then they recover from the shock of seeing me lavished with affection by she-who-you-must-not-be-sent-to-incase-of-academic turbulence and run off to look at the school’s rabbits.

Presto! The key arrives in record time delivered by Pianist friend who still can’t stop laughing. I shepherd the girls away from the harried rabbits (who actually looked at me and then heavenward to perhaps send prayers of thanks that the frenetic chase they had been subjected to till then by the girls had finally come to an end). Once home, I threaten the milk down their throats and they settle down to practice the piano for the slated “An Evening of Piano” at a friend’s house. The littlest one manages to learn a little piece in 10 minutes flat, wondering why I cannot seem to learn anything beyond C Major scale?

“An Evening of Piano” begins with snacks galore, juice, games, and a movie—anything but the piano. Finally the hostess friend decides to use the only mom-technique that works—threats. “No piano playing? Then no Chocolate Mousse” and all who have tasted Shanthi Aunty’s chocolate mousse know that it is worth dying for, so they make a beeline to the Kawai that was sitting desolately in the corner.

The music was beautiful. From the youngest to the eldest, from the improvised bollywood tunes to the lilting, dreamy Chopin—it was lovely. What magic tumbles out as the little fingers dance across the ebony and ivory! You can sit back and listen forever.

But then there is the Chocolate mousse—which is oohed and ahhed over and is just as exotic as the music that was played. Unless of course if you lack the sweet tooth...like one little one whose response to mousse was "Miaow". Neverthless, we the un-calorie conscious eat till we are stuffed and pack the rest. On the drive home, the girls announce that they want to sleep in a tent. I rack my brains for designs. Four bed sheets, one skipping rope, five safety pins and tape—a tent is strung over the bed. Not bad, could be improved, but the girls are thrilled. Admit cards and passwords are passed around. Games and books are scanned—Gingy the Gingerbread Man fails a test with the comment “Bah, this biscuit can’t talk”, and the Shrek toys (an entire set that has been collected painstakingly from McDonald's) are given a pass while the miniature princess dollies and farm/wild animals are pulled in. I of course, who pitched the tent, gave them snacks and sundry and drove them around, am shoved out—I am the Bobcat who’s to be avoided by the rats of Ratatouille. So I bring out my sleeping bag and relegate myself to the floor—I dare not leave them alone in the room considering the conspiracies that are being whispered from ear to ear. After several warnings, there is the sound of sleep….

Come morning and there is a rush to get dressed, as dad of the little one has to take her for a school performance. As he arrives, he is besieged by the little beggars who ask him to let the sleepovers continue for another day—he’s moved by their entreaties and the lure of having a house to himself with the promise of an unhindered Sunday of golf—“They are all yours” he says, wiping away tears of thanks.

Mother of children calls me to ask what you call people who like to inflict pain on themselves. “Masochist?” I offer—“You are one of them, considering that you are taking on this extended sleepover willingly”, she replies.

But hey—these girls are the best company in the world and we moms all secretly know that, not that we want to tell them of it! Where else can we be privy to conversations from another planet? Where else will we find the Armless Wonder who in a jiffy draws in her arms inside the sleeves of her mother’s T-shirt, rolls up her eyes and waves the armless sleeves around? What about the consummate bed time storytellers that grace the occasion? What about the dramas that are staged and the dances that are danced? What about the tents that are pitched?

And speaking of tents, for me it was back to the drawing board to make a better one. This time, it was definitely much better. Ergonomic and with less resources, four bed sheets, two skipping ropes and a single safety pin! Dinner is eaten along with the Hunchback of Notredam and they dive into the tent after PJs are donned. I am still handed the sleeping bag. They have decided my role—I am the official tent-pitcher, caravan/car driver, bobcat and sharpener. Hands pop in and out of the tent to hand me color pencils that seem to have severely breakable leads. After sharpening the black pencil several times unsuccessfully, I am handed it again with “I need this, I am coloring the Buddha’s eyes”. “Use another color”, I say. “But I have already colored one eye black. You want me to give Buddha one black eye and one purple?’ says the Gargoyle-eyed kid. Keeping Buddha’s interest in mind, I very quickly I sharpen the pencil down to midget size and hand it over.

After mandatory trips to the rest room are made, the girls settle down to sleep in the tent with a flashlight. Giggles and stories continue till finally I fall asleep. I wake up to see lined up angels, except that one angel’s leg is over another angel’s back and yet another angel is perilously hanging on the edge. Nevertheless, their faces are perfect with the peace sleep brings in. No creased lines—smooth, clear, eatable, sleep-puffed faces sticking out of warm, cozy, cocoon blankets. I hate having to wake them up but breakfast has to be eaten, baths taken and a trip to the library has to be made.

The rats scurry back into the tent after we are back from the British Library, where the librarian with one raised eyebrow asked, “All of them yours?” “Yes” I had replied proudly till they began to run here and there and the little one said in loud enough voice—“No order here at all. All these books are marked with a ‘C’!” The older ones chimed, “That’s because these are all books in the Children’s section!” She continues to grumble, “So many books, not one that I can read!” Lunch is eaten with Barbie and the Nutcracker.

Back in the tent after lunch, the games continue. My polite requests to complete the assigned abacus homework of the day are met with the jeering chorus, “Aaj ki abacus kus kus kus kus, aaj ki abacus!” I give up. I even give up my wonderfully gory Sunday afternoon of CSI New York. I just give up and give in to a siesta only to wake up to kids tumbling in and out of the tent and one of them sitting on another one’s hair. I sober them up with those dreaded doses of milk and comb out the tangles, as it is time for the parents to come home. Party’s over now and the bags and all are carried into the cars. Heartfelt goodbyes are exchanged and as they drive away, my kid turns to me and says, “Mimi, can I play now…with my scooter and visit Paris?”

Can you play NOW? Weren’t you playing for the entire weekend? Fine, play - now - again, have a nice trip to Paris—and give my regards to the Mona Lisa.

PS: Cheers to you lovely girls—you give us reason to believe.