When the celebrants heard the good news, they squealed at the top of their lungs and started doing laps around the living room. After they had run the equivalent of a marathon, they collapsed on the floor and asked if I had any cold drinks lying around.
As I handed the runners their refreshments, I pointed out that their party plans excluded one of their siblings. That was not only rude, I told them, but also unfair.
"The rule is 'everybody or nobody,'" I reminded them. "If you're going to have a party, then Cameron has to be invited too."
Everyone was fine with the plan until I clarified that I wouldn't be available to chaperone or babysit the youngest member of the family. This was strictly a "kids only" party. During the festivities, all of the adults in the house would be upstairs asleep in their beds.
"What are we supposed to do with HIM all night?" sneered Kellen as he pointed to the wiggly mass in the bouncy seat.
"Don't worry," said my husband reassuringly. "You'll have fun! Cameron is quite the night owl and like most other New Year's revelers, will probably puke at least once before the night is through."
The party animals (who love vomit, but only from a distance) weighed their options and decided (very wisely) that seeing the ball drop was overrated.
Anyone do anything more fun last night than get puked on?