I’m fairly certain that I was An Asshole for my first Halloween. I have no sufficient proof of this, but I was one of those annoyingly colicky babies (according to family lore) who spent most of her first year screaming. Similar, no doubt to Ben, who I dressed as a Bumblebee for his first Halloween. Whether it was because he realized just how stupid he looked or because he was just An Asshole, I’ll never be certain, but he screamed so loudly that I began to call him a Grumblebee.
In fact, he screamed while being a Tiger, The Cat In The Hat, and finally settled down when we bought him a respectable minature NASA suit. It may have been due to the exhorbatant cost of said suit (damn you Pottery Barn Kids, and your adorable, yet unaffordable wares!) or because he was dressed as something that finally made sense, but he seemed quite content in it. This suit lasted for 3 years, until this year when he suddenly realized that he had options, and in choosing to exercise his free will, asked to be Darth Vader, much to my dismay. I make no secret that I dislike Star Wars, but if he’d had to be ANYBODY from the movies, I would have hoped that he’d have chosen to be Boba Fett. But 6 does as 6 pleases, so Darth Vader he was. He was (insert applicable adjective here), but I have no proof of this, as he was moving too quickly for us to get a suitable picture. 6, it also appears, has it’s own agenda.
Despite playing Whack-A-Mole (bonus Children Edition!!) prior to heading out Trick-or-Treating, it went smashingly, and the kid got even more candy than he’d gotten last year.
In order to regain my hurt feelings of control (WHY couldn’t he have been Boba Fett? Boba Fett is AWESOME!), I decided to dress my youngest in what can only be described as “additional therapy fodder.”
(and no, those cuts are actually NOT from a bar fight, just a fight with his own fists of fury).