.
Somewhere back in my innocent impressionable years, a babysitter with particularly poor judgment allowed me to watch a scary movie. Its title is long forgotten, but the fear of dolls it instilled is alive and well. I haven't been much for scary stuff ever since. My son, however, can't get enough. I won't even tell you how old he was the first time we introduced him to Michael Jackson's Thriller. My punishment for questionable parenting is the million times he's made me watch it since. When our YouTube screen isn't featuring MJ as a zombie, it's blasting something by his favorite band—KISS. Seriously, The Wiggles just can't hold a candle to Gene Simmons' blood-drenched tongue. Scooby Doo, Monster House, even roller coasters are some of his other favorite places to turn for a good thrill. Some parents discourage or even forbid this trip to the dark side. Not me. Because the scarier it is, the more often he's going to say, "HOLD MY HAND!" And I'll take all of that I can get.
I wasn't surprised when I asked him what he wanted to be for Halloween and he decisively announced: A mummy. Okay, I thought, how hard could that be? In a word—hard. In three words—really fucking hard. As with most projects, it started off fun—my six-year-old and his Dad working together ripping a sheet into shreds. Destruction's easy.
And at first, the construction was, too. I enjoyed the feeling that I was using my own hands to create something that would give my child happiness. I sat a little straighter knowing his costume wasn't coming out of a plastic Wal-Mart bag and instead would be dripping with his mommy's love and creativity.
Me, hour one
But about 20 hours and 178 needle pricks later, it was most assuredly not fun. And what it was dripping with was his mommy's blood and almost palpable bad mojo from a steady stream of seriously R-rated vocabulary.
Me, hour 25
Day One of the project kept me up until after midnight and only got me halfway there—just the pants. I started in on the top at 10:00 Halloween morning. We were set to head out Trick or Treating at 6:00. When my husband nonchalantly announced that it was 5:00, I wasn't even close. I began sewing like Lindsay Wagner on meth with Tourette's. My husband poured me a tumbler of wine and started on hair and makeup while I banged out a steady beat—stitch, cuss; stitch, cuss; stitch, cuss, cuss. At 5:55, he was pulling on the pants while I was knocking out my final frantic stitches.
At 6:01, he was here:
And just in case that adorably satisfied little smile wasn't enough to make all my effort totally worth it . . .
A few hours later, he was here:
Check, please.
.
.
I wasn't surprised when I asked him what he wanted to be for Halloween and he decisively announced: A mummy. Okay, I thought, how hard could that be? In a word—hard. In three words—really fucking hard. As with most projects, it started off fun—my six-year-old and his Dad working together ripping a sheet into shreds. Destruction's easy.
And at first, the construction was, too. I enjoyed the feeling that I was using my own hands to create something that would give my child happiness. I sat a little straighter knowing his costume wasn't coming out of a plastic Wal-Mart bag and instead would be dripping with his mommy's love and creativity.
Me, hour one
But about 20 hours and 178 needle pricks later, it was most assuredly not fun. And what it was dripping with was his mommy's blood and almost palpable bad mojo from a steady stream of seriously R-rated vocabulary.
Me, hour 25
Day One of the project kept me up until after midnight and only got me halfway there—just the pants. I started in on the top at 10:00 Halloween morning. We were set to head out Trick or Treating at 6:00. When my husband nonchalantly announced that it was 5:00, I wasn't even close. I began sewing like Lindsay Wagner on meth with Tourette's. My husband poured me a tumbler of wine and started on hair and makeup while I banged out a steady beat—stitch, cuss; stitch, cuss; stitch, cuss, cuss. At 5:55, he was pulling on the pants while I was knocking out my final frantic stitches.
At 6:01, he was here:
And just in case that adorably satisfied little smile wasn't enough to make all my effort totally worth it . . .
A few hours later, he was here:
Check, please.
.
.
Posts
