BioMom and Seven are hosting a neighborhood "Idol Finale" party.
Note that I said "they".
Once she got the "go ahead" from BioMom about the party she started dreaming up the invitations, who she would invite, the dress code, etc. etc.
On the way to school yesterday BioMom had a serious heart-to-heart with her about how they were only going to be able to invite a few people from the neighborhood; our house is small, pizza is expensive, etc. etc. This conversation was in response to the enormous list of girls, teachers, and school administrators that Seven had planned to invite to the soiree that day.
BioMom: We can invite those girls individually for play dates instead if you would like.
Seven (brushing this off): Okay. . . Okay. . .
Yesterday afternoon, Big and I walked up to Seven's school (I refer to it as Hogwarts as it has a castle-feel to it) to pick her up. As she packed up her backpack, I noticed a large number of hand-made cards and a list of about twenty people, several of whom had checks by their names.
Me: What's that?
She: Oh, its a list of people I've invited to the party!
That night BioMom had planned on bribing the kids with fast Greek food and an ice cream in exchange for spending a little time at the local gardening shop. On the way there, BioMom explained to Seven again, that the party would remain open to only neighbors. Seven was in tears. She had, as suspected, invited all of the girls in the first grade in addition to her teachers, several students from other grades and a few administrators to the "Idol Party". BioMom talked about calling all of the parents and explaining the situation. Seven bawled: Can't I just have a FEW people from school? This conversation went on for a good 45 minutes.
We spent too much time at the gardening store and had two kids-on-the edge slurping small vanilla cones in the back seat of BioMom's car as she did all she could to control herself watching Big's car seat turn white as the ice cream dripped all over his chin and fist, and onto his lap.
Seven, on the other hand, recognizes the inherent value on the DQ cone, unwilling to let any escape her clutches, licked and sung unrecognizeable songs to herself as we wound our way around the lake to our house. At one point we heard her announce (possibly to herself):
Mrs. Picard's coming to my Idol Party!!!!!
BioMom and I looked at each other with exclamation points above our head.
Apparently one's short term memory worsens as one approaches the pre-teen years.