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My husband and two youngest daughters were headed for the door when I noticed they were packed rather light, "Wait, where are your sleeping bags? Don't you need them to stay at your Mom's?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? She had a thing, so we're going to a hotel down in Long Beach instead. Thought I'd show the girls the Queen Mary."

"Won't that be lovely," I say, biting my tongue so hard it almost bleeds. It was my idea that my husband take our two younger daughters away for the night while our eldest had her first slumber party, partly to keep the younger girls out of their sister's hair, but mostly to prevent my husband from having that spontaneous migraine he gets whenever exposed to a gaggle of shrieking 12-year-old girls.

Now I was jealous. Solo hosting of eight girls for 16 hours seemed like the better deal when compared to my husband and kids fighting for space on a fold-out couch while my in-law's stinky, geriatric dog licked them throughout the night. But a night in a fancy hotel? That was a different story.

There was no time to dwell. Seven cars had already pulled up to my house. After a quick drop, the girls' parents ran back to their cars, perhaps worried I would change my mind. The smell of burning rubber hung in the air.

"So, what are we going to do?" the kids demanded in unison.

Luckily, I had a plan. "We're starting with a game, then we'll have dinner…"

"Only one game?" a girl said in a bratty voice. "I am so out of here."

I was horrified, but then she laughed and we all laughed and I remembered that my daughter actually had nice friends. I relaxed.

Six pizza boxes and two cartons of ice cream later, these nice friends were fueled up and ready for action. The high-pitched chatter grew so loud it actually made the windows vibrate. The cat and dog ran for cover. I started to get my husband's migraine.

"Girls! It's time for a craft…outside! You'll be decorating these pillowcases with fabric paint. It's the type you can wash." Magically, the girls moved to the patio to start the quiet craft. That was too easy.

The phone rang - husband checking in from the Observation Deck of the Queen Mary where he and our girls were enjoying Martinis, Shirley Temples and the sunset. My youngest daughter yelled into the mouthpiece, "We're having a feast! Fried shrimp and nachos, and later we're going to have room service!" Great. Lucky you.

"Everything is completely under control here," I boasted. "What a great bunch of girls. Chloe has such nice frien-- Kaitlin! What are you doing? Get down from the roof! Megan, did you, did you paint your feet? Good God, people!"

I threw the phone down and lunged for the future acrobat who had shimmied to the top of our patio awning. Then, I turned towards Megan and her purple feet.

"You can't walk on my carpet with painted feet … and there's paint on your pants, too! Didn't you remember that I said the paint was permanent?"

"Oh, I thought you said washable?" The kids, clothing strewn with various shades of neon paint, stared at me crestfallen as if I had deceived them.

"No, I meant you can paint it on the fabric and it won't wash out - that kind of washable." Apparently, I wasn't very clear on that point. I'll surely get some angry phone calls on this tomorrow.

One DVD, 60 minutes of Dance Dance Revolution and three tubs of popcorn later, the kids were thankfully ready for the slumber part of the party. Ah, sleep at last.

Or so I thought.

Three hours later and cackles of laughter still emanating from the living room, I began to wonder if I would ever sleep that night. Surely, they would have to tire eventually. They were human, weren't they?

I pictured my husband sound asleep in that extra comfy hotel "Heavenly Bed" surrounded by cozy feather pillows and beautiful silence. My only consolation was that my youngest daughter would certainly wake him later in the night, convinced she'd seen a ghost.

By 3 a.m. I had had enough! I marched into the living room, summoned my inner meanness and growled, "I don't want to hear a single word come from this room."

I'm pretty sure I heard someone say, "word" after I turned the corner.

It was no use. I considered taking a couple Tylenol PMs. No, that would be wrong. The parents of these kids had put their trust in me. What if something happened in the night and I wasn't completely alert? Hmm, maybe just one.

Two minutes later morning came and my zombie-like guests were out the door.

I called my husband to tell him the coast was clear. "Okay, you can come back. The girls are gone."

"Oh, we would, but we're still waiting for a table. Apparently they have this fantastic brunch here."

As I was about to respond I glanced over at my daughter, already asleep on the couch. Finally, I had a quiet house.

"That's nice, dear. You take your time."

- Kristen Hansen Brakeman

Los Angeles essayist and blogger Kristen Hansen Brakeman has published pieces in the Huffington Post, Washington Post, Working Mother Magazine, LA Parent, Christian Science Monitor, Orange County Register, as well as posts in Scary Mommy and the New York Times Parenting blogs. This piece is excerpted from a parenting collection called Martinis and Motherhood. She's currently searching for an agent for her collection of essays, Where to Dump a Dead Body and Other Life Lessons.