Once upon a time, I had a baby boy.
As the years passed, my baby boy grew in wisdom and stature. He began to have an opinion about Halloween. He wanted to be “green bones”, aka a green skeleton. He loved the green skeleton so much that he wore it two years in a row.
Then he was Indiana Jones, followed the next year by a Ninja.
By third grade, we ripped up his old jeans, sprayed his hair orange, and made him a punk rocker, even though he barely knew what one was.
And then, this year.
He’s 9 and in the 4th grade. I knew this day would come. I had seen the older boys come to my door to trick or treat while I cradled my pumpkin baby. I noticed exactly how all the older boys dressed those years when I held my baby chicken’s or fuzzy caterpillar’s hand.
There was no escaping the inevitable. At age 9, he wanted what every other boy his age wanted: blood, gore, chills and thrills. Total freak-out-ness.
He’s excited about it.
But he’ll never escape being my pumpkin.