I just finished the last sweep up of the last morsel of ground up potato chip on the basement floor and am feeling good about a successful gathering.

It’s never easy to host a group of adults and kids at the same time because it’s essentially like running two parties. The menus are different–adults on the main level are served items with colour like flank steak sandwiches/arugula, shrimp with soupy, oily dipping sauce, red wine and things with high staining power. After a stern lecture on the low return rate of those guests who leave their mark in the form of a Rorschach wine stain on the light carpet, we were ready to indulge in some responsible snacking.

The children were quarantined and given plastic dishes with Smartfood, salt & vinegar potato chips and white lemonade. Greg made the mistake of purchasing chocolate covered pretzels and sour keys coated with sticky, white sugar, however they were conveniently misplaced (in the laundry room cupboard above the sink….behind Greg’s three white dress-shirts still hanging there from three months ago) and will be served when chocolate fingers and sticky messes, coupled with wild mood swings can be monitored more closely, perhaps in the comforts of the outdoor fort the kids are keen on re-visiting when the weather warms up.

Older boys outnumbered more timid young girls and I heard exaggerated tales from both sides periodically between sips of my Acai berry vodka/tonic with lime.

I’m not sure what was worse. The rowdiness of the boys, eager to create their own fun in a new environment, not allowing themselves to succumb to a game of house or comb Polly Pocket’s hair, or the incessant whining from my kids who despite being “in charge” for the event, found themselves unable to control the efforts and what appeared to be super human strength of boys who took toy boat-flipping to the next level and used their fluorescent orange gymnastics baton as a leg whacking device as opposed to its more rhythmic intention. I think their only interaction with Barbie was to toss her in a homicidal fashion from the top of the stairs and laugh hysterically when she landed in a way that would mean ultimate death or disfigurement for a smaller chested human.

The girls spent their evening observing this new, curious behaviour and never missed the opportunity to tattle tale on anyone, stories ranging from, “He called me a name,” “He said a bad word,” “His pants are falling down and that’s not appropriate” to, “Those boys are just too loud!”

My kids were very aware of the treat basket in the prep-area of the laundry room. They wasted no time when the doorbell rang with the first set of guests, tearing open that first bag and digging in. Mouths full when people tried to get in the door, they quickly explained the series of treats that would be served to the children and immediately came for the next course when the first was scattered on the basement floor after being used to pelt each other while running from whoever the card-carrying cootie holder was at that moment.

I remember my parents hosting groups of people and having lime pop in the house which didn’t happen any other time so I knew what it felt like to have free reign over sugary treats they were denied every other day of the year.

Upstairs, everyone mingled well. The boys parked around the food at the kitchen table, the women in the family room discussed school and extracurricular activities for the kids, hoping one of the cute boys across the way might eventually build up enough courage to ask one of us to dance. This moment sadly never arrived.

We said goodnight after midnight. This is not a typo. Midnight.

I thought twice about lathering on my night mask and cucumber slices, combing my hair the recommended one hundred strokes and putting on my flannel p.j.’s (under my day clothes).

This new group had no idea my bedtime was 8:30pm (regular) 10:00pm (extended).

Welcome spring.