An oldie but a goodie:

Last week my wife set up a slumber party for my daughter and her friends. Tonight is the slumber party. Yesterday she "realized" she had a bridal shower to go to this evening. Being too late to reschedule the sleep over, I am alone in the house with a group of six-year-old girls.

At this point I'm unsure how many there are or if any of them are mine. They move through the house in an amorphous swarm, leaving a swath of destruction in their path. Sometimes it gets so quiet that I begin to get scared. But, then, one of them ventures forth from the swarm to tell me that she has been mortally wounded by the insensitivity of one of her elementary counterparts. After a brief discussion about conflict management, I send the poor, cherubic child back into the fray, to fend for herself. "Go little one," I think, "may you survive another day." But the healing doesn't last long. Shortly another girl comes out to tell me that the first little girl just told her that I thought she was prettier than the others. I didn't say this, I merely told her to remember that she is special and unique. Stupidly, I try to defend my position. I state that I like all of them. They are all special.

It doesn't matter. The mob is turning on me. They're all wielding Barbie dolls and some strange craft project that I had them do, that went horribly awry. Raising my arms above my head, as if I am about to proclaim something truly Earth shattering, in a booming voice of authority I say, "I am going to my office to . . . WORK." Their minds, clouded by a summer of swimming and humidity cannot grasp this word. To say such a word before school begins is blasphemy in their eyes. Appalled, they scattered.

I sit here now, a prisoner in my own home. I don't dare step out into the hallway. The amorphous mob has moved on to other tasks, but I know they may turn at any moment. I haven't seen the cat in a while. I pray they haven't dressed her up. The cat had very little dignity left. It's quiet. Too quiet. I know they are plotting to capture me, tie me to a chair and paint my nails. They've tried this once today. Is that a war chant I hear coming from my daughter’s room?

Help me . . .