If my first pregnancy hadn't failed, I would have a bouncing eight-month-old baby to dress up in a ridiculous costume and hurriedly snap photos of before she tipped over. I'd hand out candy with her nestled in the crook of my arm and everyone who came to the door would go "Aww...".
But since that's not happening, at least not in this dimension, I'm not feeling Halloween this year. Not at all.
It's like I'm stuck in a time warp, and nothing significant has changed since last Halloween. Or the one before. Or the one before that. At least when I first moved into this neighborhood I believed that soon I would have my own children to add to the parade of Trick-or-Treaters. But now I'm unbelievably jealous of families, of ladies my age and younger who are inundated, overwhelmed with children. I can't handle a non-stop parade of the kind of cuteness that has been cruelly denied to me.
So we're turning off all the lights and going out for margaritas. The kids can just pass right on by for all I care. Someone else can ooh and ah over their costumes, and hand out the tooth-rotting treats they crave.
I quit.
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