Don’t Eat My Face

We’re in major fall mode around here. Jane has already broken in one of her Halloween costumes, as you can see. Yes. I said that right. ONE OF HER COSTUMES. We’re in a vortex of Disney princess obsession.  The soul breaking whip of the Disney industry flog has made its way soundly across our backs. Thanks so much, marketing whiz people. Thanks to you my two and half year old insists on eating her peanut butter and jelly clad in Snow White splendor. It’s brought a whole new meaning to “dress for dinner.” Downton Abbey has nothing on us these days.

Yesterday I reached out to kiss her and she pushed me away, looking highly offended, and said, “NO, don’t eat my face!” That pretty much sums up October so far. Princess syndrome to the tenth power.

It’s also been time for my annual horror-movie-athon where I simultaneously enjoy myself and scare myself so hard-core that I start leaving the lights on in the closets at night.

So that’s October. Snow White costumes at the dinner table. Jane’s “don’t eat my face” mandate that effectively shut down my ability to kiss her, and my inability to cope with horror movies.


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