Halloween kicks off a season of excitement and euphoria for kids, that begins with free candy & costumes and culminates in Christmas presents. Expectations are high and sometimes impossible to meet--and the following is just one example of how fun, festive activities can spiral into crushing disappointments (and searing pains in your ass).
October 22: Your young sons complete their collection of pumpkins for the upcoming holiday. They take turns asking when Daddy will carve them and he punts the task to "later this week". You make a mental note to locate last year's set of carving tools, a kit that resembles what a team of mice might use to dismember a small body or remodel a miniature kitchen.
October 24: Your young sons decide they want to paint 2 of their pumpkins. Your explanation that their existing water colors and crayons will not show up on pumpkin skin is unacceptable to them. They continue to demand pumpkin painting. You do not look forward to spending money on the kind of paint that will irrevocably ruin any surface it accidentally touches. They remind you to ask Daddy again about the carving.
October 26: Daddy carves one of their pumpkins. Your young sons are satisfied for roughly five minutes. They immediately begin badgering you about painting 2 of their 3 remaining pumpkins. You have no intention of buying paint. You recall the small set of model paints that came with the monster trucks they got 2 years ago--the set of paints that you immediately hid in fear they'd want to use it and make your house look like a paintball crime scene. You realize you've postponed the inevitable for long enough and accept your fate. You unearth the model paint set and promise they can paint their pumpkins after lunch tomorrow.
October 27 (7:30 AM): Your young sons begin asking to paint their pumpkins. By 11:00, you have said the phrase "after lunch" so many times, that the words sound like nonsense to you as they leave your mouth.
October 27 ("after lunch"): You prep the area like a kill room from Dexter and then call your sons to the table. No one comes. You call repeatedly, reminding them that the time they've so desperately awaited is upon them. They stare blankly at you, having somehow forgotten what the hell you're talking about.
October 27 (30 seconds later): Your sons scramble excitedly to the table. You've been pre-teaching all week that these paints are permanent and will not wash off. You plead with them to be calm and careful. You remind them that all art is beautiful and that perfection is almost as unnecessary as it is impossible. They are already painting and did not hear a word you said.
October 27 (10 seconds later): They are frustrated with their product. It does not match the beautiful picture they had in their minds. They become increasingly frustrated, compelling you to ask them not to throw their paint brushes.
October 27 (5 seconds later): They throw their paint brushes.
October 27 (as the paint brushes land in a flourish of spatter): You erupt and unleash the fury of 10 hells. Your kids scream and cry and demand that you "erase" the unwanted paint from their pumpkins. You don't even bother to explain the impossibility of fulfilling that request.
October 27 (after a series of deep cleansing breaths): You pry the painting materials from their desperate clutches and calmly begin cleaning up. They sob like you have just stolen their puppies.
October 27 (after all evidence of pumpkin painting has been removed from the table): You offer the paper and water colors, a familiar crowd-pleaser. They refuse and continue to spin out. You send them to their rooms to calm down.
October 27 (5 minutes later): They emerge with crushed spirits and tear-stained faces. Your younger son has already forgotten what he was upset about and asks for Play Dough. Your older son is still heart-broken and requires an additional 10 minutes of counseling and consolation. He asks to draw a face on top of the paint on his ruined pumpkin and you agree, but explain that the quarter-inch layer of lacquer he applied will need at least 24 hours before it will withstand the assault of permanent marker. He tearfully accepts, but will clearly re-hash this hurt with his psychiatrist 20 years from now.
October 27 (5:00 PM): Daddy carves the final remaining pumpkin. There is much joy and jubilation in the house.
October 27 (8:00 PM, as you're tucking in your older son): He asks when he can paint another pumpkin. You tell him you love him and promptly exit the room, so that he will not witness you slamming your forehead repeatedly into the drywall.
Happy Halloween, y'all! It's just the beginning!
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