"First Times" A Part of Growing Up

Sleeping over at a friend’s house for the first time is like a right of passage. A sign that you are moving towards that ‘grown-up’ world when you can do things independent of that safe secure place your parents have provided. But when? What magical age is the right time? First times that are so well remembered that all those after blend one into another and become almost forgotten.
Cindy Hill was not a best friend. She was not even a long time friend. I didn’t know her family well; in fact, I had only been to her house to play once. How ironic that when she asked me to sleep overnight at her house that I would beg my mother to go.
“You’ve never slept overnight at a friend’s house before,” my mother warned. “I think you might be scared without your nightlight. Maybe you should wait until you are a little older.”
Of course, that only made me want to go even more. It’s funny how kids are like that with parents. Even though you know they are right, you would never want to admit it.
“Well, I guess if you decide you want to come home after supper, before you go to bed, you can call and we will come and pick you up,” my mother said. “After all, Cindy only lives down the street.”
There were excited phone calls to Cindy, planning what to bring and mothers talking to each other. Mrs. Hill assured my mother that they would be glad to bring me home if I changed my mind. My bike and my overnight bag packed, I was headed for my very first sleepover.
Cindy lived in a rambling older Victorian, on the corner of a main road and side street. Although she did only live down the street from me it was not someplace I would have been allowed to ride my bike to, at 6 years old, since it meant crossing Springfield Street, a very busy road. All afternoon, we rode our bikes around the maze of streets in Brookdale, the neighborhoods on the opposite side of Colonial Acres, where I lived.
At supper, Mrs. Hill served macaroni and cheese. I am sure she assumed it was a safe choice. Don’t all kids love mac and cheese? Just great! This was one of the things my mother had reminded me about. As a child, I was a very picky eater. I survived on peanut butter and jelly, ham or roast beef with butter(no mayo), hamburgers(not hot dogs), chicken and absolutely no sauces or condiments, not even catsup. So when I saw that mac and cheese being heaped on my plate, I immediately, but politely, said I was not really hungry. Cindy’s eyes widened in amazement as I refused the popular kid’s meal! Mrs. Hill, on the other hand, suspected my real reasons for refusing and quietly called my mother, returning to offer a grilled cheese sandwich, which I did accept.
The long awaited sleepover was approaching quickly. Cindy’s room was a tiny closet-like nook on the third floor. It was barely big enough for her bed. On the small narrow space of floor, her mom had placed a cot sized mattress for me. This sure wasn’t like my big blue wallpapered room with my nightstand, my nightlight and the hallway light, creating a safe yellow haven from the pitch black of the night. I don’t know what I had imagined it would be like, but this was not it. Cindy couldn’t sleep with a nightlight on. I didn’t think we were going to sleep! Weren’t we going to stay up all night? Isn’t that what you do at sleepovers? Stay up all night and giggle and eat snacks?
“Where are the chips and cookies?” I asked Cindy. “What about the games?”
“Mom doesn’t allow me to have snacks in my room,” Cindy answered. “It attracts ants and mice in an old house.”
My eyes widened!
“Mice in your bedroom,” I exclaimed.
“Uh, huh, Mom says that happens in an attic room.” Cindy replied.
Mrs. Hill came up to say goodnight and offered to leave the hall light on by the steep, narrow staircase to the third floor. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Cindy hadn’t needed to close her door except for a crack because the light shone into her cubicle of a room and bothered her. This was getting to be NOT fun! Cindy settled into her snug bed and I tried to get comfortable in my tiny space on the cot. I hugged my yellow blanket with the worn silk binding closer to my cheek.
“Cindy!” I whispered. “Cindy?”
NO response. I could hear her heavy, even breathing next to me. How could she be asleep already! I closed my eyes tightly, trying hard to go to sleep too. If I could just go to sleep, soon it would be morning and then I could go home, I thought. However, soon Cindy’s heavy breathing became snores! Great! Just great! I should have listened to my mother. I wished I had listened to my mother. My mother was always right. Why had I thought I was old enough to sleep over at a friend’s house? I was not going to stay here all night. A single tear rolled down my cheek. Cindy’s house was dark and quiet. Even the mice must have been asleep.
Slowly, I inched out of my narrow space, clutching my blanket in one hand and leaving my clothes and overnight bag, I crept down the back staircase, into the kitchen and out the side screen door to the driveway where my bike was still parked. Quickly, I hopped on and headed towards the main road. Looking both ways, I crossed under the bright street lights, my legs pumping faster and faster. The coolness of the summer night air made me shiver as it billowed under my thin pajamas, but I didn’t care. I just pumped harder, half standing up in my seat, looking straight ahead. Faster and faster, my heart breathing to the speed of my bike, until I spotted my mailbox, my driveway, my house and my front door. A dim light flickered in the family room. My parents must still be watching television. As I banged on the porch door, out of breath and crying, my mother appeared. If I was expecting sympathy, I didn’t get it. My mother had to call Mrs. Hill, at that very late hour, to tell her I had biked home, alone.
The next day, I had to go back to Cindy’s house and get my bag and apologize to Mrs. Hill and Cindy for leaving without telling them. Cindy didn’t call me much after that. In fact, I don’t remember being invited over to her house again. Not that it much mattered. I probably would have been much too embarrassed to have gone anyway. After that, except for overnights at my grandmother’s house, it wasn’t until many years later that I slept over at a friend’s house. But that first time, sleeping over, will never be forgotten.
Successful or not, trying something for the first time, is all part of growing up. Sometimes you are ready for those experiences and sometimes you are not. But either way, lessons are learned and remembered. As we travel life’s path, there are risks and there are consequences, but I have never been afraid to try something for the first time if I wanted to. My mother knew what I didn’t, and she was right, but she allowed me that opportunity to try, as she continued to do my whole life and for that, I am forever grateful.