Nailed

It’s not everyday the Princess of Space, Time, and Dimension comes flying around the corner and slides smack-dab in the middle of Eight Years Old. And with two older brothers landing birthday bashes of their own, there’s just no way around making this lap around the track something to remember.

I’d just returned from a weekend away with The Guys where we enjoyed the quiet company, mild conversation and special moments captured in placid Alone Times, journaling the tender and emotional snapshots of our few days together. Meaning It’s Classified, but that’s the Official Party Line so it’s all I’m saying.

So I slide into home a few hours before the birthday party to whip through the domicile with Cute Redhead at the reigns to clean and prep for the celebration. Alpha Male and Beta Male were confined to their room threatened not to emerge from it until it met Dad Standards of Cleanliness—and that under pain of death. They twice failed but I was feeling magnanimous and granted them reprieves.

Exactly .001 seconds after the clock struck three, the house sustained a direct assault as seven little girls arrived with presents, energy, happy happy happy wishes, and one singular goal: Let’s Make Mr. Todd’s Eardrums Bleed.

So we piled them into cars, cranked—CRANKED—the stereo up full blast, and broke twelve major traffic laws to get to the nail salon on time. Actually, we weren’t even a little bit behind schedule but I figure that if you have an SUV full of Eight Year Olds Gone Wild, you can’t not crank the stereo and drive like your hair’s on fire. [disclaimer: everyone had their seat belts on so relax...we were just seeing if passing cars could hear Thriller when we were next to them. From our stereo. Full blast. With the windows up.]

They could.

Nails done, we high-tail it back to the house for (wait for it) banana splits. Because nothing says ‘Todd Why Did My Little Girl Come Back From Your House With Enough Sugar To Power The Eastern Seaboard’ like banana splits.

A few notes about making banana splits with little girls:

If you’ve ever wonder if they can scream even louder? Just ask ‘Who wants whipped cream?’ Because they can.

If you’ve ever wondered what happens when you put the jar of Microwavable Hot Fudge in the microwave for thirty seconds too long than suggested…well. Let’s just say there are worse science experiments and clean up on that one is going to be awesome.

If you suddenly hear your washing machine spin cycle sound like the Maytag has decided to do the Charleston…double check. It just might be these girls set on Stun because they’re all doing those big ballons with rubber band handles that you pound-pound-pound and then it bounces right back at you?

Yeah. I forget what they’re called but they were all doing it. At the same time. I swear to God I thought it was the washing machine about to come through the wall.

And still it was Nails and Banana Splits and Chocolate! No, Vanilla! No, Wait BOTH! and eeEEEEEEeee!!! I love this present and *enough gasps to suck the air out of the house all at once* I LOVE your nails! and *cry* let’s be in each other’s weddings! and I hate boys well not all boys I just hate the boys in my family well not my daddy he’s not really a boy (you got that right, baby girl) I just hate my brothers (you’re allowed).

Birthday party: check. One happy little eight year old girl: check. Eight sets of beautiful little nails: check. One incredible, beautiful Cute Redhead managing it like she wakes up and does it everyday: check. Two antagonistic old brothers who wouldn’t be caught dead near Girl Stuff, but who (surprise, surprise) hovered a bit too much in the worst way and had to be given The Look and The Tone: check.

Now…let’s see if I can convince the Princess of Space, Time, and Dimension to suspend the Time part of that equation and let this age last forever.