‘Mummy, I’m going to be a PUMP…’ my three-year-old, Callan, announced at full volume in the middle of the local library last week.
I clenched my eyes shut tight in trepidation as to the inevitable infant-logic explanation that would follow. As regular readers know, Cal has an affinity for the word ‘pump’, usually applied at the most inappropriate times (i.e. meeting elderly aunties at family functions – ‘How are you, Callan?’ ‘Pump’ is the reply).
‘Pardon?’ I replied with as much nonchalance as I could muster, hoping that his toddler attention span had already moved on to what he wanted for his tea.
‘I’m going to be a PUMP… KIN,’ he proclaimed proudly.
‘Me too,’ piped up his two-year-old brother, Brad. Of course, Brad has no idea what he’s talking about, but just as Callan loves the word ‘pump’, Brad (aka, The Echo) automatically adds ‘Me too’ to the end of all his brother’s sentences. If Cal announced that when he grows up he’s going to be a classical pianist, change his name to Farquhar and adopt a diet of nothing but mushrooms, Brad would pipe up with the obligatory, ‘Me too’.
But back to the library.
‘When?’ I asked, mystified.
‘At the Halloween party.’
Oh, groan. Halloween. The day of the year that I dread even more than Valentine’s Day, my wedding anniversary and National No Moaning Day. It’s bad enough that I get forty-seven kids at the door, in various plastic masks demanding fun-size Mars bars and fifty pence for telling a joke about a chicken and a cow. But since my boys are only two and three, I thought I had a few years left yet before I had to start dealing with the pressures of costume planning and freezing my bits off as I traipse around the neighbourhood accompanied by a headless horseman and Donald Duck.
But apparently Callan had other ideas. It turns out that, not only is there a fancy dress party in his nursery tomorrow, but his friends have also filled his head with the joyous rewards of venturing out on Halloween.
It’s one of those defining tests of motherhood, isn’t it?
Surely, if I were a dedicated, creative earth mother, then I would spend hours with my sewing machine, running up a costume masterpiece that could be forever preserved in in a glass display case at the Museum of Modern Art. Or perhaps I’d take the consumer route and blow a weekly wage on an authentic Goofy suit.
Does the fact that I’m tempted to cut a sheet in half, rip holes in the middle and tell them that they’re ghosts make me a maternal washout?
I decided to tackle the problem head on. If they had to do the whole dressing up thing, then pumpkins were out of the question – I don’t have anything remotely pumpkin-like that can be adapted to outerwear for infants. The only thing in our house that’s round and orange is my face after a dodgy fake-tan session.
‘Is there anything else you’d like to dress up as?’ I asked hopefully.
‘A Power Ranger,’ was the enthusiastic answer.
‘Me too,’ agreed The Echo.
Damn. I don’t keep a stock of fluorescent jumpsuits and crash helmets in primary colours.
‘Anything else?’
‘Batman,’ was the next suggestion.
‘Me too,’ said The Echo.
Nope, last time I checked I didn’t have a stockpile of black balaclavas, capes or 100-denier tights.
I was getting desperate.
‘Anything else?’
His wee face lit up in a flash of inspiration.
‘I could be a mummy!’ he announced triumphantly.
‘Me too.’
At last we were getting somewhere. I was sure I had a box of crepe bandages lurking in the cupboard of miscellaneous plasters, cotton buds and out-of-date bottles of Tixylix that masquerades as our first aid kit. Granted they’re ones left over from husband’s footballing injuries, so they’re a bit worn around the edges and stink of vapour rub, but they’d do.
‘Great idea,’ I congratulated him. ‘You’d be just like the scary mummy in Scooby Doo.’
‘No, not that kind of mummy. A real mummy. With a baby and a pram.’
‘Me too.’
My heart sank. We’re all for dispelling gender stereotypes, but I was all out of small ‘mummy’ clothes, all out of babies, and all out of prams.
It took some deft negotiation, but we eventually came to an agreement. So on Sunday night, if you open the door to two wee ghosts and a deranged-looking blonde, be generous with the Mars bars. It’ll be worth it. I know a great joke about a chicken and a cow.