November | 2017 | Good Times with Jess

This post is 2 weeks late, but that’s in keeping with all of my posts now, so maybe that means it’s on time.

Halloween. It was a big success. Baby Bop fit into last year’s dinosaur costume and Captain and I fit into our Mommy/Daddysaurus t-shirts. It was a $50 investment, so good news that we got to use them again.

Yes I could wear my Mommysaurus t-shirt any day of the year. I’m tempted to, but I’m not sure what sort of statement I’m making without a babysaurus in tow.

Before Halloween arrived, in August, neighbors kept telling us,

“Halloween is epic here!” “We went through 20 bags of candy last year.”

Captain turns to me,

“Should we buy candy now to make sure we have enough?”

“It’s August.”

He’s unconvinced and I’m not sure what else to say. I buy candy in September. It stayed unopened for all of 30 minutes after I got home. The week before Halloween I made a mad candy dash because someone, me, had eaten all the candy.

You think one piece here or there isn’t going to add up, but if you eat one piece followed by several more pieces every day for 2 months, that does the trick.

The Halloween plan was for Captain to hold down the fort and for Baby Bop and me to toddle around the neighborhood for as long as each of us could stand it.

Baby Bop screams when she sees me headed her way with the dinosaur costume, but she lets me put it on and then she couldn’t care less. For someone who has strong feelings about not wearing certain standard pieces of clothing, I’m surprised. We hit the street.

All it takes is Baby Bop sighting the “big kids” walking up to random doors and she’s all about it. Baby Bop would follow a 6-year-old just about anywhere.

We go to 5 houses and I’m done. Baby Bop is thrilled. She is at the stage that putting objects in and out of containers is very appealing. So lots of shiny crinkly things to put in her little pumpkin is delightful.

A bunch of kids see Baby Bop toddling up to them and squeal in delight,

“Oh she’s so cute!”

A four-year-old asks me,

“What is she?”

“A dinosaur!”

He rolls his eyes, lets out a long sigh and says really slowly,

“What kind?”

“Oh, a stegosaurus I think.”

“That would make sense, that’s what’s on your t-shirt.”

Thanks kid. I’ve never been cool, but exasperating a 4-year-old is new.

We head home. We did not get a lot of trick-or-treaters. Some. But not 20 bags of candy worth. So here’s to blogging while I eat a Reese’s, a Twix, a Milky Way and a Snickers. We’re saving the candy for next year.

Working at the bar was an amazing way to have crazy conversations with strangers. The other day at the doctor’s office gave me a little taste of what I’ve been missing.

Baby Bop’s doctor tells me,

“I’ve called in some labs. You can come in anytime. You can go to Weymouth or Braintree.”

“We’ll go to Weymouth, that’s closer.”

“Ok. Weymouth has one phlebotomist and Braintree has several.”

“We don’t mind waiting.”

“Well Braintree is great with kids and shouldn’t be too traumatizing.”

Ok. I get it. Baby Bop’s doctor is telling me in the most diplomatic way: DO NOT get Baby Bop’s blood drawn by the phlebotomist in Weymouth because whoever it is will stab her multiple times and scar her for life.

We head to Braintree. We toddle around the waiting room splitting our time between tapping on the fish tank and trying to tear up Golf Magazine. A woman with curly hair approaches us, points at Baby Bop and asks,

“Is her hair naturally curly or do you curl it?”

Who has time to curl a toddler’s hair? And what toddler would stand for that? “It’s natural.”

“She’s so lucky.”

“Your curls look great.”

“No. They’re not soft like hers.”

“She’s a baby.”

“I didn’t always have curly hair.”

“Me neither.”

“It started growing in curly when my period stopped a few years ago.”

What? Considering the social taboo about talking about periods in a normal voice, in public, with a stranger, I’m caught off guard. I’m about tell her my hair was straight until I got my period. She continues,

“All of a sudden it grew in short and curly. I got a few more periods, but then they stopped. You must still be getting yours.”

“So far.”

“It’s no good when it stops.”

I’ve sat through enough Winter car rides with my mom and the windows open to know it’s not comfortable for anyone.

The woman’s name is called or else we’d still be talking about her menopause transition.

A few minutes later Baby Bop is called. We walk past our new friend getting her blood drawn. Her moans are so loud that Baby Bop starts to whimper before the basket of stickers has a chance to emerge.

Baby Bop’s stranger anxiety is at its peak and she reaches full-throttle screaming long before the needle is inserted. The phlebotomist is great and we’re done before Baby Bop can catch her breath to resume screaming. I recommend going to Braintree.

On our way to the car two older women are taking tiny steps across the parking lot. One says to us,

“We’ll get there eventually.”

The other chimes in,

“Don’t get old!”

“I don’t like the alternative!” If only so I can see what happens to my hair when I stop getting my period.