Asking Toby what he wants to be for Halloween is the last thing I should do the week before Halloween. Yet there I was yesterday morning, blurting the question very open-endedly as if the world were his costume oyster.
Costumes stump me every year. Maybe because I wait until the last minute, or maybe because Toby loves anything unorthodox and absurd. Two years ago he was a railroad crossing. I striped the arms of a white shirt with a red Sharpie for the “gates” and drew a big black “X” on the chest. It looked okay, but relied heavily on his yelling of “ding, ding, ding” for anyone to get it.
Last year he wanted to be a trash truck, but I convinced him to be a Dalmatian instead. I don’t think he understood the terms of our deal because on Halloween night he hopped around panting and barking, but also stopped at every driveway to dump an invisible garbage bin before going to the door. By dark his friends were half a mile ahead and I was more than a little grumpy.
