The "slumber" in slumber party has always seemed to be a contradiction in terms to me. In the past I've never noticed that sleep had anything to do with slumber parties. From my point of view, the most important element of a slumber party was to maintain my sanity for the period of time that my daughter's ten dearest and most beloved friends would invade our home. Therefore, I devised a system to put a handle on this situation.

For Bessy's fifteenth birthday, she chose to celebrate with a slumber party. My first survival tactic would be to limit the number of guests she deemed must attend. I felt five girls was a reasonable number; whereas, she felt twenty would suit the purpose of this party far better. Somewhat reluctantly, we both compromised and decided ten girls would be an appropriate number to fraternize this upcoming social event. Hence, the invitations were sent out.

Embarking on the evening of February 21, Jeep Cherokees, Nissan Pathfinders, and Ford Aerostars were dropping young ladies off fast and furiously at our front door. As the party began to kick into full swing, I enlisted the help of my husband, knowing that there was safety in numbers. This was the second key to keeping my sanity intact. Approximately two hours into the party, I noticed Bill sneaking out the front door carrying a small, navy blue duffel bag. Racing after him, I shouted, "Where do you think you are going?"

"I just needed some fresh air," he replied as he shoved his bag into the front seat.

At that same moment, Hershal slunk past my legs and bolted toward the car, taking his place in the front seat next to the duffel bag. So much for safety in numbers; even the dog had deserted me.

It was a good thing I had a back-up plan. That was food - lots of food. There was an extra large birthday cake, a pan of brownies, four dozen chocolate chip cookies, three bags of potato chips, a bowl of apples, five frozen pizzas, and three cases of diet soda. When hosting a slumber party, the soda must always be diet; it doesn't matter how many calories are in all the other entrees served as long as the soda is diet. There isn't a self-respecting, teen-age girl alive that would allow any other type of soda to flow over her lips...

As the midnight hour approached, the music was blaring so loudly that not only were the windows rattling, but the walls were vibrating as well. It certainly was a blessing that we lived ten miles from what most people would consider civilization. I'm sure had we had any close neighbors, the police would have been on the doorstep issuing a citation for noise pollution. It was time to employ my fourth survival tactic - the little, yellow, foam ear plugs that jackhammer operators use. Thinking that maybe I could catch a short nap with these little beauties, I entered the family room to bid my goodnights. To my complete horror, above the mantel of the fireplace, my husband's 12 point, trophy buck was sporting a flaming red, lace wonder bra, size 34 D. The straps were strategically strung from one set of antlers to the other, or as one animated child referred to them - the deer ears.

At this point I knew prayer was going to be the only salvation that would save me until morning when these young ladies would retreat into their Cherokees, Pathfinders, and Aerostars. Prayer was the last and only unappealable survival strategy I could avail, and pray I did.

As the sun peaked over the horizon, it was evident that God had once again blessed me; I was now in the home stretch. Within the next hour all these charming young ladies would be gone; the invasion had been initiated, achieved, and finally brought to completion. In short order, my home would once again become exclusively my own private domain.

Standing at the edge of the driveway, I waved farewell to the last girl, slowly turned, and retreated to the house. Entering the family room, I noticed the red wonder bra was still hanging from the deer's rack. For one fleeting moment, I considered removing it, but quickly changed my mind. It seemed only appropriate that those who had gone AWOL on me should have to speculate what fun they had missed.

Gazing around the rest of the room, I wondered if it would be possible to employ the federal government's toxic waste clean-up team to restore order to my home. It probably would have been a generous guess to estimate that at least one of the three bags of potato chips was now ground into the carpet along with an abundance of both brownie and cookie crumbs. There were remnants of half eaten pieces of pizza on the coffee table, on the two end tables, and on mantel of the fire place; some with and some without paper plates underneath them. Then there were the pop cans; a small pyramid had been erected in one corner of the room and the rest of them were strewn at random throughout the entire rest of the family room. Paper plates laden with left-over pieces of cake and crumbs were all about the room as were a few apple cores. CD's and cassettes were littering the carpet in front of the stereo system. Yes, I was sure I was going to need the assistance of the federal government in this clean-up mission.

Finally I spotted Bessy in a dimly lit corner curled up on the floor in the fetal position, softly snoring. She was sound asleep. With her mouth slightly agape and a small stream of spittle running down her chin, I gently dabbed it with a tissue from my pocket. Within a blink of an eye, my sometimes obnoxious, always fun loving, and never rational teen-ager who was always on the verge of turning twenty-five had suddenly regressed into the soft, sweet, sleeping infant that I once couldn't resist caressing as she slept. If I could only cast a spell and hold her there for eternity. Covering her with the soft cotton throw from the sofa, I leaned over and tenderly kissed her baby soft cheek, whispering "Happy Birthday, Sweet Baby".