The wet blanket. The spoilsport. The pain in the neck. I've heard all the names. I've used the names. It's just tonight that I've come to realize, I am the names. I'm the wet blanket. The killjoy. But then again, let's look at this logically.
First, I have fifteen house guests. That's right. Fifteen people staying with us in our house this week. Ten of them are teenagers. Add two teenagers of my own to that mix. They are polite people. They are (relatively) well-behaved. So should I grant them a little leeway when they want to slide down my stairs? After all, don't they have a right to blow off some steam? What about the fact that they are using the brand new totes that I bought? They're sliding down my stairs, laughing and screaming, sitting on the lids to these new totes. Then they decide to go down in the totes themselves. Now am I still a killjoy? What about when my husband joins their rowdy adventure. What about if it's almost 11:30 at night? What if I already have one child in bed, and I want to go to sleep myself? Am I a killjoy if I put an end to the entertainment.
Apparently the answer is yes. Oh sure, they stopped. But they weren't happy about it. Forgive me, but it is my house, isn't it? And if I'm exhausted, I ought to be able to go to sleep, shouldn't I? We live in a big house. Why can't we dedicate one floor to quiet and peacefulness so that those that want to sleep can do so? I don't think that's too much to ask. But I guess if I don't fall in with what they're doing, I'm the one ruining all the fun. I guess I can live with that role if I have to. Now if you excuse me, I have a banister to slide down.