The Halloween My Husband Became a Mom
Welcome, Sister Wife! Here's where we keep the Nutella
My husband is a great dad, but he’s crushing it as a mom.
This Halloween my son and his friends decided to be characters from the video game, Fall Guys which would require them to wear giant inflatable suits.
“You’re going to hate ever second of it!” I yelled in my very kind and supportive mom way. “It’s going to be hot, you won't be able to see, and you won’t be able to walk in that thing!”
Kind of like a middle-aged lady mom body.
And then I ran off to Tampa to gallivant with school librarians leaving my husband to handle costume shopping. Sure enough they purchased a giant inflatable Fall Guys costume, which despite being balled up inside out and stuffed in an open plastic bag, my son had not removed it from it’s “packaging” until 12 minutes before a pre-Halloween Trick or Treat event1. The nice parent wasn’t home so I had to put on my Mom Pants2 and get to work. Turns out this giant inflatable nightmare required batteries and the tiniest of screw drivers to unscrew the battery pack. And for some reason there were two battery packs even though we only needed one. Hmm… We could not attach the fan and oh yeah, the zipper was jammed and wouldn’t pull all the way up which is a sort of an important feature for a suit meant to trap air. And yet, we continued trying to stuff him into this personal polyester sweat lodge. I kept demanded my son put his leg in an arm hole by accident.
“YOUR LEG GOES HERE!”
“That’s my arm!”
“OKAY YOU ARE RIGHT, TRY THIS!”
“That’s the same arm!”
And so it went.
It became increasingly clear the balled up inside out costume in an open plastic bag was most likely a return shoved back in the bag by a had-it mom who was like, “F this shit, sonny! Get a sheet and cut some eyeholes in it.” Mad respect for that mom.
Time to come up with a new plan: I grabbed his Golden State Warriors sweatshirt, jersey, and a pair of sweats from the laundry and said, “Here! You’re Steph Curry!”
I even found a terrycloth headband to complete the look, but my son refused it claiming Steph would never wear such a thing. Sonny, I present Exhibit A:
Did I spend too much time Googling, “Steph Curry Headband” and putting together a photo collage to prove a point to a 10 year-old? Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Do I love wasting money on things my kid will never wear? No, I do not. Was I kind of relieved the stupid costume was broken because I couldn’t unsee the vision of my child toppling over a curb and rolling into traffic? So much yes.
Perhaps my son’s friends also didn’t try on their costumes before THE BIG EVENT because all three of them were dropped off at our house with their bags of air and double A battery packs clipped to their waistbands. It took me, another mom, and eventually my husband to get one of the kids into his costume and when we finally got him dressed and inflated, it took him 6 minutes to walk apprehensively down our porch steps. So yeah, this holiday where kids are required to walk up and down porch steps was going to go real well. At this rate we could hit 3, maybe 4 houses before dawn.
But the kids had a plan— my child dressed in sweats and sneakers would make the trek up the steps, knock on the door, and request candy for all his puffy friends laboring to stay upright on the sidewalk. That worked once. So my husband and I went in search of flatter ground, namely a bank of townhomes across the street which proved to be about the best deal in town. No stairs and you can hit up 6 homes while only walking about 12 feet. (There has to be some VALUE vs OUTPUT teachable moment mathy crap here, right?)
It was here at the flat, fruitful townhomes we lost our first inflatable kid. He popped his head out claiming he couldn’t see (he totally couldn’t) and was just going to wear the deflated costume around his waist. Then another one fell over a curb so he too was out. And the third held strong for one more house before nearly puncturing his costume on a low branch (he should have been so lucky) and begged someone to unzip him. So now we had one Steph Curry barely-a-costume, and three sweaty boys in jeans and t-shirts.
My philosophy on Halloween is: who cares if a kid has a costume? Just give them candy. Maybe they lost it or couldn’t afford one or made their parents spend a lot of money on something impractical they would wear for a few funny photos before moving on. I was fine with them not having costumes, but I think being reduced to their everyday duds made them feel slightly not great. And that’s when Mr. Mom sprung into action.
Bart threw down his backpack right there on someone’s lawn and started throwing Seahawks jerseys, Kraken beanies, Sounders sweatshirts all over the grass like he was some pro-shop Mary Poppins costume nanny on Canal Street!
“I brought these figuring no one was going to last in those suits,” he said, as I looked on in wonder. “Now they can just be, ‘sports dudes.’”
And guess what—they totally were! Every house they went to someone said, “Oh look it’s SPORTS DUDES! Cool!”
Thinking there must be some enormous rip in the cosmology of the universe sparking this Freaky Friday moment, I checked my own backpack to see what cool stuff I would find in there. But alas, all I had was my gum, hat and gloves, and the air buds I packed so I wouldn’t have to hear anyone tell me how tired they were. What the hell? My job here is…done?
Very excited by the promise of a Sister Wife, I woke up the next day a little later figuring the new Mom would handle breakfast, packing the lunch, and waking up a salty 10 year-old who stayed up too late cultivating a massive a sugar hangover. But alas, Sister Wife was in a dark kitchen, staring into the pantry.
“I can’t find the Nutella3.”
“Top shelf.”
“It’s not there.”
“It’s right there.”
“Oh. I guess I couldn’t see it because the label was turned around.”
Sigh…order restored, the rip had mended.
Sister Wife, I barely knew you, but we’ll always remember how you saved Halloween.
Special Report:
When you are reading this I will likely be on my way to do the most Shelly thing I have ever done. Literally no Shellier thing has ever been Shellied. Friends, I’m going to BravoCon with my bestie, Kristina. Yes, there is a con for Bravo fans! Yes, it’s teeming with Housewives and botox and middle-aged lady moms in leggings! Yes, it’s in Las Vegas! YES I PACKED MY LEGGINGS! Two pairs!
When I told my friend Dan we were going he had the most lovely, genuine response: “Aww, I love this for you two.”
And I love it for us too. Be ready for a wrap-up report hopefully with lots of pictures of Kristina and I with women whose smile muscles have long since been frozen, but they’re most definitely smiling on the inside.
Candy for Winners
Thanks for submitting your answers in my Emergency Halloween Candy Poll! As expected, garbage candy Milky Way and Almond Joy are bringing up the rear. Order restored, indeed!
Not to sound like the crusty old lady I am but why are there so many “trick or treat events” pre-Halloween? Back in my day you had ONE SHOT. ONE!
Sweatpants, obviously
That’s right— NUTELLA. The day after Halloween. And literally every day thereafter
I saw one kid in a dinosaur bag take a hard fall over an unseen parking lot curb stop. There’s got to be like no peripheral vision in those costumes. Have a good Monday, Shelly.