… Throw a tantrum at meeeee.
My son wiggles free. I’m stuck clutching three pounds of stretched cotton balls and feeling ridiculous. I’ve wasted four bucks if I can’t just get the kid to dress up as a tampon. Not to mention that piece of “emergency”rope I cut from the garage door for a makeshift pull string. I’m pretty sure that rope was important. “Ugh, just chill out!,” I holler at him. “What’s your problem?,” I add, baffled why the kid who just last Halloween happily donned a WHAM! outfit is suddenly all about decency and standards.
This is season with a nearly 3-year-old, I am learning. This year, so far from his gloriously oblivious Halloweens of yore, the small man has opinions, a very loud will, a distinct set of likes (cake, Mickey Mouse, truck, candy) and dislikes (WHAM! among other things). He can’t stop changing and I, well, I can’t get away with this:
A silly 2-year-old, I am learning, would wear girl leggings and some crotch-hugging glow-in-the-dark-shorts. Juvenile! But a nearly 3-year-old, a dignified, potty-pissing, man of an almost-3-year-old, well, he should dress like a dude who rules free worlds, diagnoses rare diseases, starches the coordinating tie to his power suit. In short, the kid is maturing faster than I am even remotely capable.
I spent weeks researching hilarious costume concepts. It seemed like the right thing to do. It seemed like a brief window of opportunity to take my creativity out on the oblivious. The husband, after all, is super grouchy and resistant to dressing up like Mr. Clean or Justin Bieber. I don’t have a pet to wear hilarious pumpkin suits. And now the toddler has set boundaries. I could dress up, but I’m way too tall to be a tampon. I mean, a six-foot-tall tampon? Foolish. So now I am the lone weirdo in a house of severely appropriate folks, left with a slew of brilliantly dumb costume concepts and nary a person to pin them on.
Apparently the toddler is politically neutral, as he booed both Cheney Hunting outfit and plastic Obama mask. Apparently, too, he found little humor in Honey Boo Boo. This was especially upsetting as I felt confident that I could pull off the pageant mom look with just a bag on rhinestones.
Wasted Halloween Ha-Ha’s
a dog with mange,
Chair (I thought this gem up while napping),
Jersey Shore and/or a can of spray tan (in that order),
Homeschooled/ Smart Kid (complete with fuzzy kid leash for public outings),
Public Utilities Worker,
Ryan Seacrest (or any other woman with exceptionally white teeth),
Amish (Watched one too many episodes of Breaking Amish),
The creepy guy behind “Gangnam Style”,
Simon Cowell (spray tan, chest hair, shirt with exactly one button),
A Christmas Story’s leg lamp,
Little Jesus (could not find tiny Birkenstocks).
As I tried to fashion Chelsea Handler’s Chuy by wrapping my kid in large pillows I said again, “What. Is. Your. Problem?”. Call it growth. Call it instant maturity (Mix with packet of powder cheese and stir). Call it the ability of my newly independent kid to finally let a mama know when she’s too far out of whack. “Oh man. What is your problem?,” and this time I’m talking to my tampon-toddlered self.