Three years ago, James and I fell in love, or at least started to, on Halloween. Two years ago, I was pregnant on Halloween. We dressed up as a priest and a pregnant school girl. Last year, I wore cat ears while Emile went trick or treating and called it good. This year, I was ready to go out again, to celebrate Halloween the way adults do, with fake eyelashes and elaborate costumes and dancing and even a glass of Prosecco.
After much debate, James and I were able to agree and find “matching” costumes. I was a gypsy and he was a genie.
Our friend happened to be the spitting image of Waldo. His name is Will, but now I call him Wildo.
For an iota of a minute, I remembered what it felt like to be young and carefree. Not worrying about my daughter or what happens next. Around midnight, I was hit with a desperate longing for baby’s breath, and I dragged James home like a kid craving Halloween candy. But I was craving my baby girl instead, who is so much sweeter than sugar.