There are so many wonderful things about having a baby. Teaching your baby. Hanging out with your baby. Smiling at your baby. (As Bridget and I experienced for the first time this week, your baby smiles back sometimes, too.) Aside from the sleep deprivation and the occasional crying fits (hers not mine), it's pretty much the best thing in the world.
But there's one thing, one stupid orange and black thing, that stinks about having a baby: You're forced to like Halloween.
Look, I hate Halloween. Maybe it's because I think most costumes are ridiculous. Maybe it's because I dealt with the crowds in Salem when I lived there. Or maybe it's because I detest those chewy, synthetic, disgusting candy corns. More than likely, though, it's because Halloween is the dumbest thing ever. And now because I have an adorable daughter who will look cute in any costume in the store, I have to paste a fake, wide smile on my face this October 31.
My history with Halloween, from what I can remember, started when I was around 10. It was really my peak. I dressed up as Mac Tonight, the moon-faced guy from the McDonald's commercials of the 1980s. My mom outdid herself and sewed the costume, adding in cotton where my head wouldn't reach in the moon. I remember parading around our school and everyone laughing at me. It was a good laugh, though, because I won the contest. (I think I won movie tickets or something.)
Fast forward to my senior year of high school. My go-to outfit was a white T-shirt and warm-up pants, so clearly I wasn't going to put much effort into Halloween. And sure enough when the night of October 30 rolled around, my buddy and I grabbed a couple sheets, cut a few holes, made the word "Boo" out of tape, and went to school the next day as "We really couldn't care less" ghosts.
I still liked all the candy at this point, though.
College was more of the same. People were plotting weeks in advance about their ingenious, creative costumes. They made multiple trips to iParty to make sure they had the perfect shade of black or the exact amount of blood. I made sure my Hawaiian shirt was clean and my stupid bucket hat was still in one piece so I could go as "Fun island guy." Aside from the adult beverages, I don't recall much fun.
Since then, it's been one train wreck after another. Caramel apples falling off sticks. Lame parties. Navigating through tens of thousands of drunk college students in Salem. And like most adult males without children, my attempts to engage a costumed youngster in conversation as I handed him or her a treat have been forced and awkward. As I hit my late 20s, I decided to just turn off my lights on Halloween and avoid the whole thing. No tricks. No treats. Boo humbug.
But now, this year, with my little ladybug or pumpkin or bumblebee or walrus or whatever staring up at me, I need to make sure she has fun. Before I know it, she'll be 4 and it'll be princess time for a few years. Then it'll be fairies. Then ballerinas. And then, sometime in the distant future, she's going to come downstairs in a tight-fitting outfit that's supposed to be a nurse, a cop, or a devil. And I'll flip out.
But hey, at least then I'll have permission to hate Halloween again. Until that happens, I'll have a huge smile on my face. Happy freakin' Halloween.
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