Months ago, back when we first knew for sure that we would be moving this summer and that the move would happen sometime in August (at that point we were still planning on a late august move allowing for us to get more done before we were in the house, like, say, a counter top)Briton and I decided that for his birthday, which would fall in the midst of all the chaos, we would do a small sleepover. Well, I decided. And since Briton has been begging for a sleepover for a few months he agreed. Whew, one less party I have to plan, right?
So Sunday afternoon, we're running errands and Briton is talking about his birthday (the only topic of conversation all week) when he said "And it's going to be an explorer adventurer sleepover party. With Explorer stuff."
Oh, well, alrighty then. I guess it is.
The good thing about boys is that they really don't care that much what kind of decorations you have, or even what kind of cake. They just want to play. But just for laughs, I did try. We had planned to set up the tent trailer for them anyway, so that fit in well. And instead of plain old party favors I bought them each a battery powered lantern, because every great explorer needs a lantern. And I made marshmallows to roast over the fire (the fire that we could light in the Webber, that is) Finally I made a cake (yellow boxed cake, at Briton's request, how weird is that?) and decorated it with a fondant tent and Playmobil. Now why hadn't I thought of that before. Who wants to make little tiny fondant people and trees and sleeping bags when you have plastic ones in a basket in the playroom.
Of course, all they did is play. I mean ALL they did is play. They didn't want dinner, they only barely paused for cake, the marshmallows were given a pass in favor of some good old playtime with Briton's new Playmobil. So in the end, it was even easier than I had thought.
In the back of my mind I know I haven't registered that he is now SEVEN. I remember when he was three and we lived in Ireland, we had a friend who had four boys aged four, five, six and seven. And I thought the seven year old looked so impossibly old. He sat and played his Gameboy or read while the little boys rolled around on the floor amongst the cars and trains and action figures. Three seemed old to me then, four ages away, five wasn't even imaginable and seven, I couldn't fathom it. And now here we are, at seven. Which seems undeniably big, and not in anyway connected to the little round cheeked toddler that was sitting on my lap making train sounds just yesterday. I swear, it was just yesterday.