An Autumn Party

Note ▼

Writers Cramp for Sept. 9

"Dad, you never let me do anything. It's not fair! Why can't I have a few good friends over for a wienie-roast?"

The joys of parenting a 13 year old. "Read my lips, Pumpkin: I did not say you couldn't have the party. I said you could not have the party unless and until you had done what you promised to do, which was clean up your room. Since you haven't kept that promise, how can I believe your promise to clean up after the party?"

"And don't call me Pumpkin! I'm not a child. I have a name and I expect you to use it."

"Very well, Samantha. I guess you are growing up, though I wish you'd find better ways to show it. Like learning to keep promises. Like planning, and communicating. Assuming that your room gets cleaned--and I will look under the bed and in the closet, so don't plan on that trick--exactly how many friends are you thinking of?"

Her shoulders drooped and her mouth fell. "A few, that's all." She screwed her face up in an overdone pose of tears. "That's all the good friends I have. Just Marcie and Bethany and Cortina." Our spaniel, Daniel (guess who named him?) got sucked in by the act and put his head in her lap for comfort.

I resisted smiling at the dramatics and hoped she'd get into student theatre next term. "If you have three good friends, Pump-- Samantha, you're blessed. There's a saying -- 'friends for a reason, friends for a season, friends for a lifetime'..."

"Dad, that doesn't even rhyme."

"It doesn't, does it? But I hope Marcie and Bethany and Cortina are the last kind. Are they?"

Sam dropped the pose of desolation and considered. "Beth and Cort, maybe. Marcie's nice but I wouldn't trust her with my life, or my boyfriend."

"Boyfriend? What boyfriend? Since when have you had a boyfriend? Do I need to clean the shotgun?"

"Oh, Daaaad. I was speaking rhetorically.

"Well, speaking practically, I'll assume there will be more than you four girls."

"Well, yeah, plus a few boys that we all like."

"And when would this supposed party--always presuming a cleaned room--take place?"

"How about this Friday? There's wieners and buns in the freezer, I know 'cause I checked, but we need some sodas and there's only one little bag of potato chips so we need more munchies but the guys can bring those to share and I should make sure we have enough napkins and get ice for the cooler and--"

"Woah! The planning is great, but first things first: Room. Clean."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay." She grimaced at me and stomped off. She closed the bedroom door quietly behind her (We have this policy: slam the door and it comes off for two days. You want privacy, you learn self-control).

###

The room had passed inspection, so on Friday, Pumpkin was whirling around with preparations.

"This party is going to be so rad! I want everything to be just perfect."

"Don't let the perfect," I began.

"Be the enemy of the good," she finished. "Spare me the homespun philosophy and empty the ice into the cooler."

"Please."

"Pulleeeeze. Jeez. We'll never get ready in time."

But we did. By the time the cool evening settled in and the last of the monarch butterflies had headed on their long flight to Mexico, eight youngsters were laughing and dancing around our backyard fire pit, some roasting their third or fourth hot dog and demolishing a sixth bag of taco chips. Where on earth do they put it all?

I had peeked out the kitchen window now and again to keep an eye on things, but they were a bunch of pretty good kids having a good time. They had run poor Daniel the Spaniel ragged chasing his ball, and he finally hid under the picnic table, where no one would trip over him. I kind of envied snoring dog: he hadn't a care in the world.

At ten o'clock, as agreed, parents began arriving to pick up kids, and a small group prepared to walk home. I went out to survey the damage and say some goodnights. Amid all the laughs and jokes and insults, one young man, who had spent a suspicious amount of time with Samantha, came up to me. "Good night, Mr. Stanton. I'm Jarod, I'm in Sam's class. Thanks for letting her have the party. We had a good time. You're a pretty cool dad." Hmmm.

The kids had burned most of the garbage and collected the soda cans in a bag, so there really wasn't too much cleanup.

"Sam, how was your party? Everybody seemed to have a good time."

"It was so gucci! Really lit! Maybe not the GOAT, but still, I guess it was mittens."

While I was wondering what on earth she had said, she came over and hugged me. "Thanks, Dad. It must be tough being a dad sometimes, but I know it's for a lifetime."