The little angel was not a big fan of Halloween, her costume, any of it.  She really told it to piss off.

To be fair, she's been sick since Friday.  She's still waking up howling at her own moon every night at the 3 a.m. witching hour. I called the Benevolent Pediatrician today, and her nurse told me not to give the little angel any meat or dairy products, since they are hard to digest. This is in case her stomach hurts. Which it may not. It might be her ears, or her little toe, or the wind in the trees, or the idea of a flat tax, or nothing, really, nothing at all, just likes to cry for an hour at 3 a.m. We really don't know any more about the little angel's mental make-up at this juncture than Harriet Miers' judicial background.  Such is life.

Anyway, I digress.

We went to trick-or-treat house number one, that of my friend A. and adorable Baby N.  He was dressed as a lion.  The little angel wiggled in her horrible blue Care Bear costume, the costume I swore I would not put her in but did anyway out of desperation.  She was also wearing some sweatpants under the costume, and I think the combination of thick fleece and fake fur and size 5 diapers caused just a bit of binding, perhaps a Waddler Wedgie.  Who knows.  Anyway, she squalled until we removed both the costume and, inexplicably, her shoes, which she refused to wear for the rest of the evening. 

We sort of gave up on trick-or-treating any more after that. 

Upon our return, we realized if there were ANY cute little kids in our neighborhood, they were long gone. We did get one rowdy group of middle-school kids right before the angel's bath, but they ironically would only take one small handful of candy each.  I plan to dish the rest out on my students at class tonight. The last thing we need is a bunch of chocolate around the house.  I tend to eat a lot of sugar when I've been up diagnosing little angel cries all night, and dammit, I just don't need that sort of temptation. 

In other news, my darling mother has been here since Saturday primarily for the purpose of watching the little angel while I teach tonight, as beloved is out of town.  In her time here, she has cooked all the meals, frozen many, done all my laundry and is now volunteering to take home my pants with the pesty hem and fix them instead of just taping them together.  God bless mothers and their amazing acts of domesticity of which I am incapable of doing. 

Yes, we had the flu this weekend.  I spent Friday night sleeping on the floor of the little angel's room, terrified she would choke on more of the said Vomit in the Crib.  Either that, or I would have to comb hot-dog chunks from her perfect red head in the bathtub more than once on a Friday night after drinking three glasses of wine.

You, childless people?  Yes, this is a true story.  Stop laughing. 

So let's just say you're BFF with this guy and his wife in Texas.  Then, one day, the guy tricks the Supreme Court into making him president.  Four years later, a befuddled country elects him again, frightened by the microphone tricks of Howard Dean (those loud noises sure can be scary). 

You move to Washington to hang out with the gang, and eventually they make you White House counsel.  But one night, at a lock-in at Camp David, you tell your BFF that you think it would be really super-cool to be a Supreme Court justice.  He sort of laughs, but then over his third O'Doul's, he tells you that if he ever got to nominate someone, he'd pick you, as long as you pinky-finger swore that you hated abortion and would overturn it in a second if you could. And he'd know if you could, because his eyes are really lasers.

Then, like, OMG!  All the sudden IT HAPPENS. The whole country suddenly knows about every guy you ever dated, all those stupid questionnaires you filled out so someone would give you a frickin' job already, and you're having to trot out your large-rod curling iron to get your bangs JUST RIGHT every day.  Life is like, totally great.  And, you get to hang out with your BFF even more than ever.  He even says you have grace, which, fundamentalist code word or not, you think secretly means he thinks you're, like, hot.  You respond in kind, batting your thickly-mascaraed eyelashes, and tell him he's brilliant.  You know that works on him, since, like, even Laura knows better than to call him that.  But he's your BFF, so it's okay. 

Anyway, then the entire world turns against you. They call you a "crony," which, dude, is like one letter away from being "crone."  WTF?  In an effort to keep up appearances and the height of your bangs, you finally decide the best thing you can do for your BFF is to withdraw.  Plus, he like made you promise to do that at Camp David.  It was the addendum to the pinky swear:  "But, like, if this makes me look bad, you have to stop."  Of course you agreed. The plan was so brilliant, it could like, never fail.

Right?

So now, instead of getting to dress up and go talk to the press about your BFF every day, you just have to go back to your stupid office and feel dumb.  Here you thought you were getting a lifetime appointment to the Big Dance, and instead, you're stuck along the wall by the gymnastics pads, just like in high school.

Poor Harriet.  Props for giving it a try, old girl.  Thank GOD you didn't get in.

I received a photo of the little angel and her five back-up singers from one of the other mamas at the Emerald City yesterday. It was taken in the spring, probably around the one-year mark for her.  The Waddler Posse is sitting in one of those red-and-white striped buggies so popular with Midwestern daycares.  The little angel is in the front row, next to the other mama's daughter, S.  Our favorite J. is in the back row, sporting a wicked Afro of a height I don't remember, but I'm sure I noticed at the time.

Things of note about this photo: 

• J's Afro - I can't look away. 
• S and the little angel seem to be wearing matching hats.  I don't recognize the angel's hat, so who knows what she stole when nobody was looking.
• The little angel has her ankles neatly crossed, as if to inquire if the driver will be back soon, and is he bringing crumpets?
• She's sucking on a paci in broad, non-napping daylight despite my instructions at the time NEVER EVER to let her have it when not sleeping.  Thankfully, they soon lost it, and that prompted that speedy paci removal at sixteen months.
• She's inexplicably not wearing shoes. 

A gander into what happens when mama is not watching.  I think it is most likely good that she gets this weekday time during which less paranoid people are taking care of her.  Heaven knows she gets to emulate Kate Hudson a lot more, anyway.

Tonight we took the little angel to the grocery store after work.  This is hardly a new thing - after all, we are voracious eaters if nothing else.  Tonight, however, was the first night we let her walk around the store (under the guise of  "helping") so that she would get good and tired before bedtime.

First, she rode the free horsie outside the store, slapping the reins against its poor, lathered neck and waving her imaginary cowgirl hat in the wind.  Ride 'em.  Yeah.

Then we released her.  "Go get the bananas!" I said. 

"Namanas!" she cried, making a beeline for the produce section. I huffed and puffed to keep up with her.  She selected the worst bananas ever known to man.

"Bring them to Daddy," I instructed, feeling sort of like an idiot.  That's parenthood, though, isn't it?  Feeling dumb in public?

She hoisted them to her father.  "Tank twoo," she said, handing them over.  Then we went for the potatos.  "Tank twoo.  Tank twoo."  Of course it is impossible to hand over more than one potato at a time when you are eighteen months old.  I thought, good Lord, this is going to take an hour. 

And it did.

From the produce we progressed to bacon for Grandma, who is coming to stay with us this weekend while my beloved goes to train for his newly secured job next week.  Then snack foods.  Then chicken.  Then canned vegetables.  "Tank twoo.  Tank twooo."  She still thinks that she needs to say that whether she's supposed to thank you or vice versa.  She's schooling us in the fine art of manners, my girl.

When we got to the yogurt section, she probably peed her diaper.  Yogurt is her favorite food in the whole world.  She had never before noticed there was an ENTIRE WALL of yogurt in the grocery store.  She selected four varieties, carrying them one by one to her father, pushing aside flood victims and old ladies on her way.  "Tank twoo," she said to each of them as she stepped over their walkers. 

When we were done shopping, I thought she might cry.  I reminded her the eating part was next, knowing this would make her 75th percentile heart go thump, thump.  "You did very good, angel," I said, patting her red head.

"Tank twoo," she said.

Tonight we took the little angel to the grocery store after work.  This is hardly a new thing - after all, we are voracious eaters if nothing else.  Tonight, however, was the first night we let her walk around the store (under the guise of  "helping") so that she would get good and tired before bedtime.

First, she rode the free horsie outside the store, slapping the reins against its poor, lathered neck and waving her imaginary cowgirl hat in the wind.  Ride 'em.  Yeah.

Then we released her.  "Go get the bananas!" I said. 

"Namanas!" she cried, making a beeline for the produce section. I huffed and puffed to keep up with her.  She selected the worst bananas ever known to man.

"Bring them to Daddy," I instructed, feeling sort of like an idiot.  That's parenthood, though, isn't it?  Feeling dumb in public?

She hoisted them to her father.  "Tank twoo," she said, handing them over.  Then we went for the potatos.  "Tank twoo.  Tank twoo."  Of course it is impossible to hand over more than one potato at a time when you are eighteen months old.  I thought, good Lord, this is going to take an hour. 

And it did.

From the produce we progressed to bacon for Grandma, who is coming to stay with us this weekend while my beloved goes to train for his newly secured job next week.  Then snack foods.  Then chicken.  Then canned vegetables.  "Tank twoo.  Tank twooo."  She still thinks that she needs to say that whether she's supposed to thank you or vice versa.  She's schooling us in the fine art of manners, my girl.

When we got to the yogurt section, she probably peed her diaper.  Yogurt is her favorite food in the whole world.  She had never before noticed there was an ENTIRE WALL of yogurt in the grocery store.  She selected four varieties, carrying them one by one to her father, pushing aside flood victims and old ladies on her way.  "Tank twoo," she said to each of them as she stepped over their walkers. 

When we were done shopping, I thought she might cry.  I reminded her the eating part was next, knowing this would make her 75th percentile heart go thump, thump.  "You did very good, angel," I said, patting her red head.

"Tank twoo," she said.

My beloved passed his test.  In my sleep-deprived delerium, I offered to take him to the hardware store.  Thankfully, he realized we still have no money and only bought a new vent for the bathroom floor. What a guy!  WHAT A GUY!

In celebration, the little angel slept all night long last night.  She was rewarded this morning with the opportunity to carry around her kiddie ear plugs while she got dressed.  She accessorized them with a photo of her grandmother holding a baby version of my niece who is now five and a banana.  Oh, the struggle to get her to part with these items so she could put on her coat.  Wild monkeys from Oz could not have made her more mad.

Now that the test trauma has passed, I turn to concern for what I will wear to my Halloween party on Friday night.  I've been invited (shock and awe) to a costume party!  And it's just down the street! And it starts after the little angel goes to bed! And my beloved doesn't want to go!

Now, I don't want to spend any money on this costume, because I probably won't be there long enough to make it worth it.  Also, the party is thrown by my former English professor, and I don't really know anyone else who will be there, so I really don't want to walk in and guarantee nobody will talk to me by my outfit.

I do own a floor-length, irridescent, rainbow-colored, fake-lizard-skin dress and a yellow boa.  The dress was for a New Year's Eve party that later became a pajama party.  I still can't really remember why I was compelled to buy it. I've had it for about six years and the only time I wore it was when I tried it on. I really don't even know if it fits.  The boa is from my bachelorette party - almost five years ago.  The boa I've worn lots of times, natch.  Boas are versatile accessories, no?  I'm thinking if I just taped a giant "DON'T" sign to my back and combed my bangs to look like Renee Zellweger, I could have an easy costume. 

The other option is just to put rocks in my pockets and go as Virginia Woolf.

My beloved passed his test.  In my sleep-deprived delerium, I offered to take him to the hardware store.  Thankfully, he realized we still have no money and only bought a new vent for the bathroom floor. What a guy!  WHAT A GUY!

In celebration, the little angel slept all night long last night.  She was rewarded this morning with the opportunity to carry around her kiddie ear plugs while she got dressed.  She accessorized them with a photo of her grandmother holding a baby version of my niece who is now five and a banana.  Oh, the struggle to get her to part with these items so she could put on her coat.  Wild monkeys from Oz could not have made her more mad.

Now that the test trauma has passed, I turn to concern for what I will wear to my Halloween party on Friday night.  I've been invited (shock and awe) to a costume party!  And it's just down the street! And it starts after the little angel goes to bed! And my beloved doesn't want to go!

Now, I don't want to spend any money on this costume, because I probably won't be there long enough to make it worth it.  Also, the party is thrown by my former English professor, and I don't really know anyone else who will be there, so I really don't want to walk in and guarantee nobody will talk to me by my outfit.

I do own a floor-length, irridescent, rainbow-colored, fake-lizard-skin dress and a yellow boa.  The dress was for a New Year's Eve party that later became a pajama party.  I still can't really remember why I was compelled to buy it. I've had it for about six years and the only time I wore it was when I tried it on. I really don't even know if it fits.  The boa is from my bachelorette party - almost five years ago.  The boa I've worn lots of times, natch.  Boas are versatile accessories, no?  I'm thinking if I just taped a giant "DON'T" sign to my back and combed my bangs to look like Renee Zellweger, I could have an easy costume. 

The other option is just to put rocks in my pockets and go as Virginia Woolf.

There's a new student in Waddler B. M, a delicious young munchkin, aged twelve months. And yes, dammit, you're required to list your child's age in weeks until the child is three months old, then in months until the child is two. After that, you just beg other people to take the child away so you can have a shot of tequila already.

M. is adorable.  He sort of walks, which, as we recall, the little angel did not do at twelve months.  It does not make me sad to say this, as I am working very hard on not comparing my child to everyone else's child.  Instead, I checked out M's. outfit.

Brand-name overalls.  Little cream sweater.  Blue leather tennis shoes. 

Yes, blue leather tennis shoes.

I looked over at Ms. B., the drop-off teacher.  I raised my eyebrows. 

"M's got some mighty nice shoes there," I said.

"Oh, yes he does," she replied.

We smiled, reading each other's minds.

She'll figure it out soon enough.  Sometimes things wipe off leather. Not always tempura paint.