It’s October first. The day we are supposed to feel the snap in the air, crisp cool breezes, everything pumpkin spice, and Halloween. My favorite holiday of the year.
When my daughter was five, I drove her out to the pumpkin patch, we stood next to all the pumpkins, took a thousand pictures, and spent the entire day in coordinated outfits. I was the first to sign up as volunteer for the fall festival at school, and I was all about the homemade costumes.
“Um, what? What the heck do I even do with that? You want to wear a red and black joker outfit with some goggles?”
She shrugged, “Pretty much. Can we do it?”
I don’t want to make a steampunk Harley Quinn costume. I don’t want to dip nutter butters into chocolate to make little bride of Frankensteins.
I want to buy a bag of candy, put on some cute cat ears, and sit out by the door watching all those moms out there with their little ones. I want to admire the homemade costumes the stay-at-home moms have put hours and hours into, look at them with a knowing wink… because I know what they put into that costume. The ten hours of work they spent getting those wings just right.
I know this is a world where we are supposed to cherish every last second we get. Where we are supposed to remember the times with our kids, and stop and live in all of them, because heaven knows that is what every single old person says to us every chance they get when we look like we are the least bit exasperated.
But this year, I don’t want to Halloween. I am over it. Totally over it. Let’s just go straight to Christmas, k?
(Can I just say for the record that I totally made that tutu? She loved that thing. Maybe I need to make a Harley Quinn steampunk outfit…)
