I’m pretty sure I should be famous.

Or at least, have people consider me to be super impressive.

It’s not because of my career, or my education. It’s not because I’m tall, or had 3 kids in just over three years.

It’s not even because I like to think I’m a cool person and I make myself laugh all the time.

Nope, the real reason I should be famous is because I had a birthday party for my seven year old today.

Now, I hate the idea of leaving any child out. I remember how awful it feels to think that everyone is included but you, so I’ve made a point of inviting every single child in my kid’s classes.

But to minimize the damage to my psyche, I’ve been doing the invites 3-4 days in advance, so that hopefully not all of them can make it.

My plan usually works relatively well, but today that meant that I had a house with 17 children in it.

17.

Let that sink in for a moment.

I made pizza and bought a sheet cake, put out chips and a table cloth and a sign saying happy birthday.

As the children arrived in clumps of twos and threes, I could feel sweat start to bead up on my forehead.

Dear sweet heavens, it was a lot of children to have in a house.

Thankfully, the sun was out and my plan to have them run around outside worked.

When the present opening happened, and three more nerf guns appeared, they had gun fights in the backyard and practiced marching, which was somewhat disturbing but at least outside, so relatively quiet.

I became the mother yelling “body shots only!!”

No one was seriously maimed or injured, everyone had fun, and there were no major fights or bloodshed.

(except by my five year old, who always somehow scrapes herself. Elsa bandage solved the priblem, as always.)

They left as planned after three hours, and I cleaned up and threw away the millions of juice boxes that had somehow multipled on the back of the couch, in the bathroom, and all over the lawn.

And then, famous individual that I am,

I had a nap.