One of the things I hated about Chooch’s old school was that Halloween was treated like Satan’s bachelor party — to the point where it was called the “H-word.” The preschool classes were miraculously permitted to celebrate it. I remember, being a party helper, following the kids on their parade route through the school and hearing the other teachers saying, “No, don’t say the H-word! Don’t let [the principal] hear that!”
Give me a fucking break.
But apparently, some public schools are following suit. A letter was sent home a few weeks ago stating that in lieu of Halloween parties, the classes would be having “Fall Celebrations.” No costumes, no parade.
Shit, I was on a warpath, talking about spearheading a movement, writing letters, homeschooling my child (ha-ha, yeah right — that was just my angry estrogen levels doing their psycho pelvic thrust on that last part). Apparently, other parents must have complained because an amended letter was sent home saying that the parade was going to happen after all, and that all the kids could bring their costumes to school, but please no: weapons, masks, makeup and/or accessories.
OK, the weapons part I get. Especially being the city. But what’s left after you strip a a kids costume of makeup, accessories, masks?
This actually didn’t affect the first graders, because they had a pumpkin patch field trip that day. But thanks to Hurricane Sandy, the field trip was canceled, so I was left scrambling to throw together a school-approved costume for Chooch.
[His actual costume is Daryl from The Walking Dead, but without a crossbow (weapon), dirt/blood on face (makeup), zombie ear necklace (accessory), and squirrel (accessory) hanging from his side, what’s the point?]
(I should also note that his Nerf crossbow — which I won with THREE SECONDS LEFT on eBay — isn’t scheduled to be delivered until tomorrow. Thankfully, trick-or-treating has been postponed until Saturday due to the horrible weather. So that’s one thing I can thank Hurricane Sandy for. She’s still a cunt, though.)
Short of sending Chooch to school with a sheet over his head*, he took a trench coat-type thing, his pin-striped vest and a fedora for the most half-assed, unrecognizable gangster of all-time. He must have asked me 17 times on the walk to school to remind him what he’s supposed to be.
(* The school probably would have considered this a tripping hazard, anyway.)
So, I guess no Halloween pictures until the weekend. Here’s last year’s, in case you were really pining for some Oh Honestly Halloween bullshit (which I doubt):
Barb was nice enough to fill in for me at work so I could have the evening off to fulfill my quota of motherly obligations. And thank god, because Henry did absolute FUCK ALL as far as the costume went. In fact, he napped until about 20 minutes before it was time to trick or treat, I was so goddamn irritated.
“But my job is so hard! I don’t get very much sleep!”
Go cry to your mommy about it, OK Henry? Come back when you’re ready to be a real man and help put makeup on your son.
Thankfully, Chooch’s costume — zombie Justin Bieber — cost nothing. And thank god for that because Henry’s membership dues for the local Bronie chapter are late.
Thank you, Bieber, for being so easy to emulate.
I thought the lipstick prints were a nice touch, but unfortunately once the sun went down and it began to RAIN, I doubt anyone really noticed. Or bothered to wager a guess.
“You know what we need?” Henry asked, actually trying to get involved FIVE MINUTES before trick-or-treating started.
“A black kid to go with him as Usher?” I offered immediately, kicking myself for not asking our neighbor Toya’s son.
That was not what Henry had in mind, and I can’t remember what it was because it wasn’t very ingenious or memorable.
As soon as we walked out of the house, Chooch’s school buddy Nate and his older brother just happened to be at the house next to us, so they got to trick-or-treat together for awhile, but I feel like their aunt and uncle kept trying to ditch us.
I can’t imagine why.
At one of the houses, some guy who was maybe in his late teens/early 20s asked Chooch what his shirt said.Then to me, he said in this condescending tone of superiority, “I mean, I could see if he was a girl.”
Really? Is it seriously that common for a girl to dress as Justin Bieber?
So of course, I fixated on this for another block and a half, totally psycho-analyzing this fucker’s statement and questioning the obscurity of my kid’s costume.
“Let it go,” Henry kept mumbling around mouthfuls of pick-pocketed candy.
BUT I COULD NOT LET IT GO.
I was so happy when I put the pictures on Facebook later that night and one of my guy friends commented with a simple “Bieber?” YES. YES, THANK YOU FOR GETTING IT.
Henry reminded me that the rain was preventing people from stopping to actually look at what the kids were dressed right as some home owner exclaimed, “OMG BOB THE BUILDER! HOW CUTE!” as the little fucker behind Chooch toddled up to punch his hand in the candy bowl.
If I really wanted to reach new heights as a Halloween pageant mom, I could have arranged for some of the girls in Chooch’s class to dress as his squealing entourage. This wouldn’t be hard to accomplish considering how much they fawn over him anyway. I could have just set them loose and they’d have chased him down the street like they do on any normal day.
(I have to take my vitamin now. Henry bought me an apple corer thing like Barb has, so now I am eating all of the apples and choking back vitamins. This is a New Erin.)
There was one (1) Baby Ruth in Chooch’s bag that night and I said, “All I want is that Baby Ruth. Please, no one eat it.” But then I guess I was too distracted by my new apple fetish so by the time I went back for it, Henry had already shat it out in the toilet.