OK, I’m just gonna put it out there. I don’t care about Halloween. There, I said it. This whole celebrating Halloween thing is fairly new to us antipodeans. When I was little, sporadic trick-or-treating occurred in a desperate grab for free sweets but, by and large, Halloween as a concept did not exist. We didn’t have Halloween themes at school, we didn’t have people knocking on our door demanding food (is it just me, or is it just glorified begging, but for sugary treats rather than nutritional food?) and we certainly didn’t dress up the day before Halloween.

And now, because I don’t give a flying wahzoo about Halloween, I have suffered the crushing sadness of mummy fail (OK, daddy failed too, but he seems to shrug these things off much better than I do). Yesterday was childcare day, a Friday, the Friday before Halloween. Fortunately, hubby was on drop-offs so I didn’t get to feel the full impact of the crushing humiliation of failing to dress up my child for the Halloween-themed fun. Yup, missy was one of the only kids not adorned in a Frozen dress and witch hat (because … why not?). In fact, missy doesn’t know what Frozen is. She doesn’t know who Peppa Pig, Iggle Piggle or Shaun the Sheep is either. But we’ll get to that all at a later blog.

The result of all this is my ambivalence towards Halloween has turned into loathing. That’s right, this stupid made-up “holiday” has humiliated me, and I’m not taking it. I’m eating pumpkin this week in protest! Pumpkins aren’t pretty, they’re food! And I’m pretty happy I live in an apartment and don’t have to hand out my delicious chocolate treats to small Frozen gnomes. It’s all mine! I’m the scrooge of Halloween, and bah humbug!! *cue witch laugh*

Next: My one-year-old has tantrums

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