Let's start at the beginning. Sam had a nice morning nap, and then I got him all dolled up in his dragon costume and headed for town. In our small town, the businesses along Main Street have "Trick or Treating" from 10 to 2 for all the kids. Sam's a bit young for candy, but with his adoration for groups of people, I thought he'd enjoy getting to see everybody in their costumes - doing a bit of "Trick or Greeting," so to speak. Anyway, he loved his own outfit; just like the first time he wore it, he got a big kick out of looking at himself in a mirror while wearing it. All signs pointed toward a successful outing.

We started at the library, where he happily flirted with the librarians for about fifteen minutes before getting restless. I thought he might have been a little warm; he was wearing a warm outfit under his costume to avoid the need for a jacket over it. We said our good-byes and strolled out into the cooler autumn air. Mind you, even though I was wearing the sling, I had Sam sitting in his stroller to allow him a good view of all the younger children and their costumes.

He didn't calm down. He fussed a little...then a little more...and by the time we'd made it almost three-quarters of the way down one side of the street, he was in full-blown meltdown mode. I tried picking him up and slipping him into the sling, but he was still inconsolable. I removed the body of his outfit, but he continued to whine. The head was next to go, but he was still unhappy. Finally, throwing up my hands in defeat, I slipped into a nearby coffee shop to nurse him. He was asleep before he'd taken three sips.

I guess all the stimulation was a bit much for my little man.

As if all the fussing wasn't bad enough, I managed to drop my hastily purchased soda, bought to allow myself freedom to use the coffee shop's lounge, before I'd taken more than three steps out the door. I now had a fitfully sleeping son, a stroller full of his discarded Halloween costume, and shoes covered with orange soda. I thought my day had hit its lowest possible point. I was wrong.

We stopped for lunch. Sam is always a huge hit with the staff at our favorite sports bar, so he flirted mildly while I ate too much food in a hideously wrong-headed effort to comfort myself. As we were leaving, the manager wanted to hold Sam, and he was happy to oblige. A waitress passed us and called the manager "Grandma."

"Not yet!" called the horrified woman.

"Your kids are younger, then?" I asked her.

"The oldest is twenty-five."
"I was twenty-five when I had Sam."

She looked at me with big eyes. "Really? Don't take this the wrong way, but...I thought you were around thirty."

Cue the sound of my esteem cracking. Not that thirty is old, precisely, but I'd rather be thirty if I'm going to look it. Actually, I'd rather be forty when I look thirty, but that's neither here nor there. In any event, I've never been told that I look older than my age. I knew I wasn't at my best, but I didn't know that caring for an infant would tack five years onto my face.

Anyway, that was going to be the low point of my day, right? Wrong. The low part came when I sat here tonight, a full bowl of candy on the table, and not one trick-or-treater arrived with open sack. Bleah. Crappy Halloween to me. Anybody want a Tootsie Roll or thirty?

Take yesterday, for instance. I was putting him in his bouncy seat so I could make lunch, when he noticed a box of noodles sitting on the counter next to him. He seemed eager to see the box more closely, so I handed it to him. For a good ten minutes, he joyously poked and prodded the box, turning it around and over as much as his little hands would allow. That box of dry noodles entertained him more than any of the other toys with which I had tried to tempt him in order to earn myself enough time to whip together a sandwich. It was an even bigger hit than the wooden spoon.

And then, to top off the experience, I took the box from him and shook it. You can judge for yourself whether or not he was impressed.