No Rest for the Wigged

Not sure who thought cake, pizza, and apple juice was a good idea before naptime, but there we were at yet another munchkin-centric foam-heavy ball-intensive barefoot dancin' party, celebrating yet another 3-year-old's birthday in a romptastic manner. Though not as well organized or engaging as the last one, Ryan still seemed to have a blast, following instructions very well, not minding when other kids snatched balls from him ("Oh, um, sorry," he would say), and smashing the hell out of bubbles with his face.

Jazzed up, he would not fall asleep on his floor this time, nor in his bed where I beckoned him four times, snatching whatever book, toy, or nick-knack he'd crawled out to get and make noise with. His sister fared no better, sans a thirty-minute head-askew power nap in the van on the way home, so I fed her some peas between claps while Ryan ran around the house screaming at imaginary trees or whatever. I finally just got him outside to play in the sprinkler, since the grass (and he) needed it.

His neighbor friend Jonathan came over close to when he was good and done, but he ran around in his swimtrunks for another half-hour, enticing his friend to plop in a puddle, even though he was wearing his new red shoes and Ryan was barefoot, making footprints on the asphalt (he also leaned over in the puddle and made the occasional "hand footprint!" as he called them). I and Jonathan's parents were glad they would be burning off more steam, but it was finally time to go to bed. Ryan hugged Jonathan and told him he loved him, then told his parents he loved them individually.

To reciprocate, I told Jonathan I respected him as an individual.