I got in early Monday, set up the cupcake tower recycled from Saturday's "carvinal" in the break room for my overworked colleagues, and received a call back from our pediatrician that they wanted to see Emerie to check out her eye. I had left them a message before they opened explaining that my daughter had poked herself with a wand (it took a lot of restraint not to call it a "magic" wand on the voicemail). So an hour after I arrived, I raced home to retrieve Emerie who was, by all accounts, perfectly fine. We got her checked out anyway, and by the time I got home I just couldn't go back in. I put a few hours of work in during nap time and took the rest of the day to bake whole wheat sugar cookies and color-- to be, as Daniel reprimands me for calling it, a real mom.
We thought we would be able to leave Emerie in the stroller, but she would not have it. Several houses in she pleaded to go up to the door. She doesn't really eat candy, but she understood this was an enterprise she wanted to be a part of.
"Mommy!" Mirabella cried, "Did you hear that? We winned!"
I said, "Mirabella, did you have a good time trick-or-treating?"
"Yes!" she said, "And we winned!"
I didn't realize until later that night, while compiling photos into an online album for the grandparents, that I might have tried to pack too much specialness into one night. After trick-or-treating, we made "mummies" (pigs in a blanket), decorated our festive cookies, then had a bonfire in our backyard. It was a lot. And though Mirabella did deem it her "most favoritest night of all," I can't say I did it only to make memories for her and Emerie. Of course I want their childhood to be happy and warm and full of homemade fun; I want them to associate Daniel and me with a feeling of home. But nights like that remind me that I would do almost anything to slow it all down; to keep them small and hold them just a little longer.