My Rosie, who will be 14 soon, threw a party tonight.
It was a goodbye party for one of her good friends, who is moving to California in a few days.
She pretty much took care of everything except for paying for the pizza and soda and chips.
When I asked her how many kids were coming, thinking the answer would be 8 or 10, I felt my knees shake when she informed me she was inviting the whole class. All 25 of them.
I thought I might cry.
25? 25 13 and 14 year old girls and boys running around my house? Hmmmm. Let's make this an outdoor party, shall we?
It was fine, though. Sweet bunch of kids. Most of them have been in class together since they were about five years old, and now they're these young men and women who are taller than me. But still, grown as they seem, they're kids. They ran and laughed and danced. The girls did a lot of crying over their friend. A lot. Crying and group hugging and pledges of chatting and texting and skyping and calling till their dying day.
As I sat by the fire in the twilight, I listened to them sobbing,
And I thought I might cry.
The boys didn't quite know what to do with themselves when the girls started their waterworks. They tended to gravitate to the games when the tears began to flow.
They're hugging again.
Uh-oh, they're crying.
Wanna play man-hunt?
I watched Rosie getting chased around the lawn at dusk by a boy that used to chase her around when they were about four.
There was a Dragon Tales component to the game.
There was a flirty chase-me, chase-me component to the game as she ran with hands waving in the air, giggling, with this man-boy in hot pursuit.
And I thought I might cry....
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