not breakfast or a new dance
mom's night before plight
"I want to be an FBI agent!"
"Wait. I want to be a cowboy. A zombie cowboy!"
"Or an alien cowboy."
"What about something scary? I want to be something scary! With blood!"
I am making the wee one stick with FBI agent. We already have the sport coat (a snazzy double-breasted job from Goodwill we found a couple of days ago), some black pants, and an awesome skinny tie. All we need is an ear doodad and a badge and the costume is done. Except that everything is too big and he doesn't have a white shirt. These things, I think, can be frantically remedied 10 minutes before trick-or-treating. That's my plan anyway.
The wee-er one, on the other hand, is not so easy, or quite as full of ideas. I have been trying to get her to wear a ballerina costume we have courtesy of my sister, the dance studio owner. No go. Maybe the ladybug costume from last year? No go. What about a ghost? Uh-uh. She is mostly interested in dressing up like the wee-er one. Not like an FBI agent, but actually like the wee-er one, even down to wearing his underwear over her pull-up. She shouts down any other suggestion, though if I had a size 2T black suit, I would so make her be an FBI agent, too. That would be incredibly cute.
Ike-a-saurus, he's easy. He will be the Future President of the United States and preside over all of us and our Halloween mayhem. Maybe he will issue tax breaks for all of the candy I have bought and then eaten. A charitable donation to the crazy.
Now I have to get the damn printer to work so I can forge an FBI badge. Maybe I will also print out a giant picture of the wee one's face and turn it into a mask for the wee-er one. That might just be very excellent.