Holy Sheet, It's Halloween

In keeping with my childhood tradition, I assembled Rollie's Halloween costume at 5:30 Saturday night.

It took awhile to come up with a get-up that would top last year's costume (see right).  Every time one of our neighbors opened the door to dole out candy, they burst out laughing, and in some instances beckoned other family members to come see the little boy sporting leiderhosen like a toddler version of Augustus Gloop.

My husband and I went back and forth for several minutes and couldn't agree on what Rollie should wear as he trick-or-treated.

Me: How about a soccer player?
Jeff: That's kinda lame.
Me: But he likes soccer.
Jeff: Does he have a soccer shirt?
Me: He has a t-shirt with numbers on it.
Jeff: It needs to be a real soccer shirt or he'll look silly.
Me: But isn't that all a soccer shirt is?  A t-shirt with some numbers?
Jeff: It's not just a t-shirt.  It's usually polyester.  Plus, he doesn't have soccer shorts.
Me (trying not to roll my eyes, since my husband played soccer in high school and is really into it and I don't dare voice my opinion that Rollie's only two for crying out loud and I don't think him wearing a t-shirt with numbers on it would preclude him from scoring any candy): Alright...how about Indiana Jones?
Jeff: Does he know who that is?
Me: No...but he has some khaki pants and a button-down shirt.  And I think he has some binoculars somewhere.
Jeff: Indiana Jones doesn't wear binoculars.
Me: Oh.
Jeff: Do you have a hat?
Me: No.
Jeff: How about a whip?
Me: Um....
Jeff: Or some sort of...rucksack?
Me: What the hell is a rucksack?
Jeff: You know, like a back-pack.
Me: No.  No rucksack.

I wasn't willing to admit defeat, but I was getting anxious and a tad desperate.  I was having flashbacks of Halloweens spent scrounging my parents' closet in the Eleventh Hour, finally pulling together something I thought resembled a hobo, but in reality just made me look like a dirty-faced eight-year-old in a Members Only jacket.  I would not let Rollie share this same, humiliating fate.  I was dangerously close to cutting a couple holes in a sheet and turning him loose.

He ended up in a toga made out of pillow cases, and on his head he wore laurels I pruned from my fake ivy planters that sit above my kitchen cabinets.  He was a Roman.  I think he got more laughs this year.