Happy Frickin' Halloween

The four of us recently went costume shopping for the kids. We were all pretty excited about it. Chris and I even confessed to each other later that we'd been looking forward to the outing all day. Slightly pathetic, I know...but we are always striving to do more things together as a family, so just the fact that both parents were along for the ride made the excursion feel extra special. Plus, it's Halloween costumes! Pretty fun, right?

I'm not exactly sure when things went wrong, but in hindsight, I suspect the trip was doomed from the start. The girls were tired and hungry, and I should have been more on guard the moment I sensed restlessness and felt the need to promise dinner at the kids' favorite restaurant if they behaved. But I decided to soldier on and hope for the best.

We entered the store with a clear plan: Emma wanted to be a vampire and Sophie wanted to be Minnie Mouse. That plan went hurtling out the window the minute both girls saw the entire wall of costume choices before them. After about 20 minutes of back and forth, several polite "Are you ready yet?" inquiries from the store clerk, and a lot of whining and tears from both girls, we were no closer to making a decision. Sophie managed to choose every costume in the store that was not available in her size while inexplicably turning her back on Minnie Mouse, and Emma dismissed several cool vampire ensembles in favor of a zombie prom queen getup that her Daddy quickly banned for being inappropriate. (I have no idea why Chris had such a negative reaction to that costume, but once he laid down the gauntlet, I had to back him up. Lord knows he's supported several unilateral decisions on my part that he didn't understand, so I definitely owed him.)

Finally, we successfully coerced the girls into each selecting an outfit to try on. And then, we entered the dressing room...or, as I like to think of it, the seventh circle of hell.

First of all, the space was really small and hot. We were wedged in pretty tight, and soon we were all grumpy buckets of sweat. The girls started shoving at each other to "make room" and an argument broke out over how to best get the costumes out of their packaging. At one point, Em took Sophie's outfit in an attempt to open it, and Soph broke out her signature move: A shout of "Em-MA" accompanied by an indignant foot stomp. (Classic Sophie, and always a harbinger of bad things to come.) Sophie's witch outfit barely made it over her head before being ripped off, thrown to the floor, and declared "the ugliest costume I've ever seen." But the situation didn't reach Level 5 status until Emma started complaining that her costume was scratchy. By the time we got it all the way on her body, she was shrieking and wailing like someone had just driven a toothpick under her fingernail. She actually edged toward full-out hysteria, clawing at her face and screaming for at least ten seconds in high C territory because the costume was "itching like ants, oh my god, oh my god, get it off get it off GET IT OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I would love to say that I observed this behavior with a zen detachment, but the truth is that I lost my shit and started yelling phrases like, "Calm DOWN!" and "Have you lost your mind?" and "You have got to be kidding me!" as I ripped Emma's costume off as quickly as possible.

As we emerged from the dressing area, I took one look at Chris and declared, "I. Am. Done." I can only imagine what my poor husband was thinking at that point, but to his credit (or not...I waffled on the point myself), he kept trying to tempt the girls with random accessories in a misguided attempt at salvaging the outing. However, none of us was having it. I told Emma she could wear a tank top under her torture device costume to help with the itching and gave Sophie the ultimatum of Minnie Mouse or nothing. She opted for the mouse and we quickly paid for both costumes.

Both girls were firmly attached to me--Sophie on my hip and Emma at my waist--as we exited the store. (After my girls act out, they also get very clingy. Of course, the timing is highly suspect. Demanding affection at the precise moment that I would prefer to be as far away from them as possible? Children are masters at emotional manipulation.) Everyone had finally started to calm down when Sophie had the audacity to ask if we were still going out for dinner and was promptly told HELL NO. (Well, the "hell" was implied. Strongly.) So we rode home to the relaxing soundtrack of Sophie weeping and gasping between sobs, "But...I...Want...Panda...EXPRESS!!!!" approximately 7,242 times.

After a tense dinner and early bedtime, I asked Chris why these types of routine excursions often go so wrong for us. He shared some very sound and rational theories that did absolutely nothing to deter me from my utter conviction that we are horrible parents raising demon children.

Of course, those same little demons gave us multiple hugs and kisses before bed and apologized for their actions more than once. The little one even said, "Thank you for taking us costume shopping, even though Emma ruined it." (Um...clearly her perspective of the evening was not exactly the same as mine, but I still appreciated the gratitude.) Those imps know exactly what they are doing. Just when we are ready to wring their necks, they go and do something to remind us how much we adore them.

So...that's how we do Halloween prep in the Mathews household. I don't really have a tidy wrap-up to this post. No epiphanies or anything. Depending on the moment you catch me, I'm either totally in love with my children or ready to ship them off to boarding school. (Often both at the same time.) At this point, I don't really see that changing much. My main goal is simply to document the lunacy so that someday, when my grandchildren go ballistic over...well...everything, and my dear grown daughters come to me for sympathy, this blog can help explain why I always greet their desperate cries for help with maniacal laughter.