Why I'm the Worst Halloween Mom EVER

Here lies any hope of me ever
excelling as a mom on October 31st
Halloween showcases what a terrible mother I am. 

Every year, I say to myself, "Self, it's going to be different this time You're going to brainstorm early, shop for all necessities in September, and execute the perfect costumes. They will be sitting in their closets weeks in advance, awaiting the accolades of the masses. The boys will be thrilled with what you've accomplished, and awesomesauce will be smothered upon thee.  Finally, you will feel like the incredible parent you know you are."

Every year, I promise this. Every single year.

And every year, I run out four days before Halloween, find whatever is left on the shelves, and hope to candy hell that it comes together well enough that the boys don't cry and ruin the shoddy makeup job I will undoubtedly do on their disappointed little faces. 

I love Halloween, but I am not a Halloween mom. I wish I was. I want to be one of those moms. I've strived to be one for the last thirteen years. They lovingly piece together homemade costumes as easily as a peanut butter sandwich, humming as they take measurements, sew materials, iron on sequins. Their children strut down the road like they would a runway, showing off the latest fashions straight out mom's craft room.  The rest of us smile politely and say, "What a great costume!" while shoving our inadequacies deep, deep down with a few calories from the candy bowl.  We try not to meet our own children's gazes. Gazes that ask: why don't you love me as much as Sally's mom loves her?

If I can't be that mom - ruler of all things black and orange - then I'd at least like to be the Acceptably Adequate Mom, or AAM for short. The AAM somehow figured out a long time ago that she either doesn't have time, or just doesn't want to put that amount of effort into a costume that will be worn for a whopping two hours. Best of all, she's okay with that. Instead, she will take out a second mortgage and go buy a really nice outfit for her child. Or, if she's frugal, she'll order it on eBay three months early and only have to sell her car. She may not have the artistic savvy of those moms, but she still comes out ahead of me. 

I'm the mom on a tight Halloween budget, with no talent to speak of, who doesn't plan ahead, and has to costume three kids. I am the worst possible combination - the perfect storm of Halloween fuck ups, and the most likely to lead my children straight to a therapist's chair in the future. 

Don't believe me? One year, I decided to make four-year-old Intrepid into a ghost. Yes, a ghost: go ahead and bask in the light of my creativity. I took a white sheet and plonked it over his body with a hole for his head. I drew some chains on it in permanent black marker. Then, I made him a "ghost hat". A hat I had to sew.

It ended up being white and pointy, and had eyeholes in it. 

It took a few houses before it dawned on me that we were parading a little Klu Klux Klan member around. 

We took the hat off and stuffed it way, way into his candy bag. We then proceeded to parade a child with a white moo moo around. It's sad when that's a huge step up. 

This year, the most impressive costume was Gutsy's "bowling league zombie", which involved shredding and dirtying up some old clothes and painting his face. Intrepid used his dad's reaper costume, and Spawnling thankfully decided to be a ninja - which meant he could use Gutsy's costume from last year.

I look like this before coffee, most days
The worst thing about this? I was both relieved and happy that I didn't have to put a lot of effort in. I'm quite sure there is a scary place in hell reserved for serial killers and mothers who don't take Halloween seriously/dress their kids up as murderous racists.

(And what did Geekster do this year? Well, before anyone starts waving fingers and saying something sickeningly politically correct like "This isn't the 1950's and your husband could help out, too", I'll head you off at the pass with pictures of the ever-growing haunted graveyard that he tends to lovingly every year. It's not super elaborate yet, but he and the Gremlins Three are always adding new things. Last night, he added a fog machine and homemade spooky music that he and Gutsy created. At least someone puts the effort in around here.)

Pumpkin brain guts. Nasty, but cool.

Pumpkins and creepy corn stalks

We got our first snow the night before.
Skeletor has risen from the dead
to kick Mother Nature's ass

I told Spawnling that if he kept yelling
Mrs. Spider would wrap him up for a snack

NaBloPoMo Day 1, or "I am a giant idiot"

Crap.

I did it.

I joined NaBloPoMo, which means I have to, like, blog every day for a whole month.

Do you know what this means? Do you understand the far-reaching implications of this commitment?

It means I have to sit down every single day and write something.

To make sure we're clear: I have to sit down with a coffee every single day, taking time away from burning things cooking, stuffing things under the couch cleaning, stuffing things in closets sorting, bribing and threatening parenting, and desperately seeking coffee dates being popular -- to blog.

No longer will I have the excuse of my silly little life getting in the way. For at least half an hour every day, sick kids will have to wipe their own noses, dishes will sit stinky in the sink, and I will ignore the sticky mystery substance on the living room carpet. They will all have to wait, because I am a blogger, and I must blog. It is my destiny.

(Or some such junk I'll use as an excuse to not take care of the never-ending list of responsibilities on my plate.)

Of course, I decided to sign up for this just now, as my gremlins scream at each other in the midst of their sugar highs, in the wake of a fun but tiring Halloween, ending with the coup de grace of a daylight savings time change. My timing, as always, is impeccable.

So, I leave you for now with The Maven's 2009 costume, which I proudly sported for most of the day yesterday:



Yes, my pretties. I was Octomom. I'm shameless, and you love it.

Or at least you tolerate it. Either is fine, really.