In keeping with my childhood tradition, I assembled Rollie's Halloween costume at 5:30 Saturday night.
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.
Jeff: Do you have a hat?
Jeff: How about a whip?
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.