While last week’s maladies may have dampened our spirits, they were not about to dampen our ability to trick or treat. We rallied, made it out, and (they) looked cute doing it.
Cute. But with an air of subtle disarray, the chaos of the week peaking through their less-than-perfect costumes. Carson? He was Obi Wan Kenobi with gasp! The wrong color lightsaber! Horror of Star Wars horrors.
Elizabeth? She was darling. After the approximately 97 wardrobe changes before settling on this ladybug costume.
And Mary Grace? Her requested tiger costume was a size 2T. She’s five. That was a battle I wasn’t going to touch. Did her tiger paws end halfway up her calves?
Oh, yes. But I say it added character. Or something. Oh and speaking of TIGERS…
…we got a cat! Actually not really. Actually it’s not ours at all, though she doesn’t quite know this yet. And ACTUALLY this cat story has absolutely nothing to do with Halloween. Have I sufficiently confused you yet? GOOD. Because I’m sufficiently, completely, and TOTALLY confusing myself. Because, you guys, I don’t like cats. They make me miserably ill with allergies, plus they’re sneaky and mean. Except something extraordinarily odd has happened to me over the course of the past few weeks, and I have started to love this little stray that has taken up residence on our porch. I don’t even know what’s happening to me.
This morning, I was in the process of getting Lucy’s food from the garage when I heard the cat meowing. Really loudly. Thinking that Cat (we haven’t named her. because that means we must keep her or something.) had somehow finagled her way into our house, I freaked, sprinted inside, slammed the garage door, and busted tail into our room to awaken Matt. “Wake up! The cat is inside our house! The cat is INSIDE OUR HOUSE!”, I loudly whispered, giving my announcement the dramatic sense of urgency it obviously deserved. Because clearly my husband needed to be privy to all of our not-even-our-cat drama at 4:30 in the am. (Also, I have sleep issues. It’s a sensitive subject.)
The man loves me a lot, so he rolled out of bed AT 4:30 IN THE MORNING (morning to some. night to others. like my husband.) to assess the situation and deal with the cat. And by “dealing with the cat”, I mean he stood gazing at the tiny cat meowing OUTSIDE of our house. Not inside. Oops. So there we were, outside. At 4:30am. Staring at a perky little cat that isn’t even OURS. And so we did what any reasonable people would do. We fed it leftover chicken noodle soup.
Shoot. We’re never getting rid of this thing.