missing the memo

When I saw that every baby at day care this morning – every baby but Alice – was dressed for one more round of Halloween, I thought, “Nobody said anything!”

But the indignation could not be maintained. Because if every other parent – every other parent – had managed to put together some dress-up clothes, clearly something had been said.

I dropped her off and spent five minutes in the parking lot trying to decide whether I should go back home for her costume.

Wouldn’t want her to feel left out? Feel silly? Obviously, projecting  a little bit. I was sort of a neurotic kid* about things like this. I wore uniforms to high school, and when we had the odd free dress day, I took along a spare Oxford shirt and gray gabardine skirt, just in case I had it wrong and was the only girl in jeans and sneakers. Oh, my gosh. That would have been a nightmare.

So I was feeling kind of terrible on Alice’s account. I even called David, who was gracious enough to answer during what sounded like a real rager of a campaign stop. He had only a few seconds.

Blah blah blah blah blah, should I go back home for the costume?”

“No.”

OK.

Throughout the day, I had to remind myself that:

1. Alice is 9-months-old. Was she in costume? Was anyone else? She doesn’t know. The breadth of her social experience is such that sometimes children are dressed like puppies. Other times, they are not. Either way, it’s all new and a little crazy.

2. What she did wear was more comfortable than her costume would have been. And bonus: I didn’t have to worry about her eating the sequins.

3. There was an owl on her onesie. (Thanks, Ariel!) And owls are just this side of spooky, right?

Because if not, I totally would have gone back for the costume.

*This is a digression (ask David to tell you his joke!): But I was also really nervous about being tardy to school. So when I heard, half asleep, this morning that GM had cut Pontiac it made me think of how, on days my Nana drove us to school, and it looked like we might be late, she would promise to “drive like a maniac” in order for us to get there on time. And if it was really looking bad, she told us she’d drive like a Pontiac.

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