Sleeping Over

 

My eleven year old daughter is having her first sleepover tomorrow night.

She is giddy.

So is the nine year old who gets to attend by default.

When I think about her sleepovers, this is what I’m seeing.

When I fast forward my brain to something in technicolor, the only way I can make myself go through with it is, bribery.

If I host her sleepover, I get my own next weekend. No, not with the hot janitor, with the woman who introduced me to Fireball Whiskey, sub-zero nights in the hot tub, Margaritas and Martinis, and grown up sleepovers.

I’d lived here in the Dakotas about three years when I first met Tori. We met at work and hit it off, I don’t remember exactly how, but I’m sure it was perverted. Her husband is often out in the oil fields and that long hot summer we had our first sleepover. She’d farm out her kids and I’d give mine to their dad and she and I would crash at her place.

My kid’s dad has asked me, more than once, “What do you do over there?”,  the hopeful tilt of his eyebrow had me rolling my eyes. I can imagine what was going through his head-and my reply.

Nope.

Nope.

Nope.

I think he was actually disappointed to hear it goes like this.

Followed by this-

Devolving into a six hour conversation about work ending with both of us agreeing that-

And just to be clear, any pillow fight between the two of us would look a hell of a lot more like this than anything you might see at Heff’s place.

 

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