Too young for a sleepover?

My daughter Izzie loves sleepovers, probably because they have been confined to Granny’s house, where she is spoiled rotten, is pampered and protected, and can invade Granny’s bed at any time of the night. I can sleep soundly knowing she’s being well looked after, and that if there are any problems, I will be alerted and can sort them out. Furthermore, being ‘within the family’ means any hiccups – behaviour I don’t approve of from either child or caregiver – can be corrected moving forward.

However, since turning four a couple of months ago, Izzie has decided she’s grown-up enough to have friends over for sleepovers or even go for sleepovers at their houses. I can well understand the thrill and excitement of hanging out with your friend without your parents, staying up late to muck around, and gaining a sense of independence and ownership over your life. But while my wife thinks sleepovers are fine, I am dead set against them because to my mind, four is way too young.

So when is the ‘right’ time to start sleepovers?

She has a friend that she’s known since they were both around six months old. This friend (and, of course, her mother) have been to our house dozens of times, and Izzie and my wife have been to hers probably more than this. They’ve been to parties together, the park, the theatre, swimming – all sorts. I’ve seen how the children interact together, how the mother disciplines her child, and the values and beliefs that this woman possesses. I have therefore, tentatively, agreed to my child going over to her friend’s house for a sleepover, on the understanding that if there are any problems we are to be informed immediately and come and collect her.

My wife unfortunately interpreted this as carte blanche on sleepovers, so promptly lined up another with a friend from nursery, a child I don’t really know, whose mother I’ve only met a few times and whose father, coming from a radically different socio-economic class to us (he’s undoubtedly many, many rungs closer to the Queen than we are), is such an unknown in terms of attitudes, beliefs, behaviours and child-rearing practices, that I’ve insisted my wife cancel.

And therein lies the rub, as my wife now refuses to budge. This is before the first sleepover has even taken place, and we’ve seen whether it was a success or not.

I’ve explained to my wife that I see it as my job to protect my daughter from harm – physical, psychological and emotional – and I am simply not comfortable allowing my four-year-old into a nighttime excursion at a virtual stranger’s house, a place filled with expensive breakables and a father I’ve never met. Her response is that she has met the family a number of times, I’m a control freak and need to learn to let go. Yes, I know I struggle to relinquish control, but frankly the safety of my children, to be looked after within my own home and under my own roof, is more important to me than fostering my daughter’s social connections.

We are therefore at loggerheads, and neither of us looks to back down anytime soon.

So which of us is right? Is four too young for sleepovers? What age were yours when they first slept out? And does anybody have any experiences, good or bad, they’d like to share about sleepovers?

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Running Down the Clock

Time is a funny old thing. The ticking hands of the clock fool us into thinking it’s a constant, moving at the same speed regardless of what’s going on, but time is actually surprisingly malleable. It passes slower the further you get from a source of gravity, so skiiers on a mountain are measurably ageing less rapidly than sunbathers on a beach. Likewise, the faster you travel, the slower time passes, so the astronauts on the International Space Station return to Earth younger than if they’d stayed at home.

Of course, we’re talking nanoseconds here – nothing that humans could notice.

Subjectively, however, time passes at vastly different speeds, depending on our mood, level of attention, hormones and the amount of processing our brain has to do. Ten minutes in the company of a bore can feel like hours; hours in the company of your lover can feel like minutes. The car about to crash into you seems to take forever to hit, but sit down for an exam and half the time is gone before you’ve finished writing your name.

And the larger scale passage of time can be a paradox, being both squashed and at the same time incredibly stretched – especially when you have kids.

‘Can you believe she’s almost four?’ they say. ‘I can’t believe she’s starting school in September.’

On the one hand, it seems like just yesterday she was born; like yesterday we took her home from hospital; yesterday she took her first steps and said her first words. But at the same time, it’s been one hell of a longĀ  four years, the longest of my life. And thinking back to before she was born – back when our lives weren’t dominated by children – seems like peering into the distant past. I read about it in history books and it isn’t me.

And another irregularity of time is when you get yourself stuck in a rut – when the days fly by without anything to mark their passing, but they go by So. Freaking. Slow.

It’s a trap I’ve fallen into over the past few weeks. I know we’re supposed to pay attention to every single moment, to enjoy our kids every second of every day because it goes so fast and they’ll never be this age again, but damn – at the moment I’m just running down the clock.

The days have become so slow, so repetitive, and I’m so freaking bored, all I’m doing is waiting for their bedtime, counting down the hours until I can be me again. But as soon as they’re in bed, I’m too tired to do anything, so I too go to bed. And that’s how I’m living. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Park, soft play, beach. Painting, play-do, bath. Every day, the same, the same. Life has been stripped of its fullness.

Time drags, but suddenly it’s the end of week and I’ve done nothing. And I just feel empty, this horrible sense of ennui, this existential nothingness.

Time stretches on endlessly and shrinks to nothing.

So today, to adjust my relationship with time, I have filled my day with fullness. I’ve driven through yellow fields of rape; explored old buildings cloaked in wisteria; and tonight I’m hunting for ghosts in the ruins of an old prison. Because life isn’t about counting the hours, it’s about making the hours count.

I just have to remember that.