My dad’s finest Halloween moment was giving our hopeful trick-or-treaters slices of bread for their sweetie bags. Most of our visitors were teenagers, dressed in bin bags with holes cut into the top; surely in that situation a slice of stale Hovis is all you can rightfully expect.
I don’t know whether it’s the bread or the bin bags, but Halloween tends to leave me unmoved. Dressing up boys, though: that I can get behind. We took SpiderFamily to the Halloween party at church on Saturday night, and at least one SpiderPerson consumed so much sugar he was buzzing for hours after, yes hours. The boys have the sort of auntie who can hear about a Halloween party, reach casually into her closet and bring out a full-body Spiderman costume, which makes her the coolest auntie ever. For my part, I sewed a plastic spider onto Henry’s shoulder and felt like I’d earned my motherhood badge at last. Please note: the ability to face paint does not arrive with your motherhood badge. Must practice.
Tonight we finally carved our pumpkin. I do not know how I have reached the ripe old age of almost twenty-nine without ever carving a pumpkin, but it was obviously a state that could not continue further. I grilled a ten-year-old at the weekend about the procedure and made careful notes, but as it turned out Timothy knew his way around a pumpkin carving, no problem. I like that in a gentleman.
The face we chose was a solid classic. He is glowering at me now from the corner, all sassy eyebrows and stringy insides.
(I just typed ‘pimpkin’ instead of ‘pumpkin’, which is at least twelve times funnier. Time for bed.)