So am I the only parent struggling to honestly answer every question your kid can throw at you? Perhaps there is something to be said for ‘because’ or the expanded versions ‘because I said so’. Alas, I just can’t bring myself to do it. But in my race to fill my offsprings sponge-like brain perhaps I have over shot the mark. Did he need to understand mummification at 4-years old? Maybe not but the thought of him thinking that mummies are blubbering cartoons wrapped in toilet paper is a disservice to an entire culture. Or when he was singing Buffalo Soldier in the bath and I felt compelled to explain slavery because he asked why they were fighting for survival. Maybe just singing the song and imaging toilet paper covered mummies with their arms out is enough. Then again not explaining that mucus turns green because of an iron component secreted by white bloods cells is simply out of the question.

I have officially broken a record this year. I did not start planning Texas birthday until well past my January 1st hold date. I say hold date because I am forbidden from discussing birthday planning until the new year. The quandary with birthday planning is that each year must outshine the last. I figure I only have maybe three more years before my tiny charge puts his foot down and declares a Chuck E Cheese’s event or something similarly horrendous. And so with about four months to plan and execute we are now in full birthday planning mode. This year’s theme is superheroes but of course it will not be that easy – I will not bow to the played out Superman and Spider-Man of convention – nope we will be inventing 17 unique superhero personas complete with unique superpowers.

Most people think of children’s party planning as a struggle to overcome each year – for me it is a chance to invent the perfect two hours for my perfect little guy. Every tedious detail thought and re-thought. Diagrams, dry runs, organizing, labeling all in preparation for the one hour of madness we have to assemble the perfect setting before guests arrive.

It is my annual control freak type-A masterpiece. In my insane world I get to be 100% in control. My Camelot.

I received the stuffed monkey that would eventually become Texas’ beloved Monkey Monkey as a shower gift. It is about the cutest softest stuffed toy ever. From his first ability to name things they have always come to him in twos. His bottle was called bottle-bottle his pacifier was referred to as mouth-mouth and his monkey was named doubly in turn. As Texas grows one by one these double named staples in his existence have faded into the past. As I tidied up his bed the other day I found Monkey Monkey hidden beneath a bean bag chair. I wondered how long he had been abandoned and realized I had not seen him lately. I quickly placed him front and center on his bed in hopes that he would fall back into good graces. I think deep down all parents dread the idea of their little one’s Monkey Monkeys ending up under the bean bag. What’s next Mommy Mommy?

Obviously, I have been posting out of order lately – sorry if this is terribly confusing…

So this year Texas decided that we would be a family of pirates for Halloween – my first reaction was joy since I didn’t want to have to go as a storm trooper (I assume those costumes would be really hot). Unfortunately, as soon as I hit the interwebs for the perfect pirate family costume my joy quickly vanished into a sea of stiletto heels and miscategorized ‘adult women’ clothing. Who over the age of 19 could look good in this stuff? So I thought, maybe I am searching the wrong thing? After an innumerable variety of search queries, which concluded with the desperate search for ‘matronly pant suit adult woman’s pirate costume’ I realized that Halloween has simply become synonymous with whore.

I did finally find a costume on like page 92 or 146725 of my Google search that appeared to be age-and boy-type appropriate for the under 5 crowd. I ordered it immediately. When the package arrived the shirt, which in the photos was white and fairly long was a beige off-the-shoulder half shirt, the pants were skin tight and short and the ‘belt’ was a piece of pleather with no way to connect it to itself of your body.

Needless to say, if next year the storm trooper idea pops up I will just put an ice pack down my pants and deal with the potential of a heat related accident.

I was recently surprised to hear from a friend that at her child’s school carnival they bobbed for apples. I have always been proud of how I have kept my germ neuroses in check since the birth of Texas. I have never been one to douse him in sanitizer, or incessantly ask him to wash his hands in public. I bought BPA bottles, organic baby food and only steam-cleaned the tile when he was first crawling (so he would not be exposed to chemicals) but all in all I think I have been pretty lax about the whole germ thing. Which is why I was surprised at my genuine horror at the idea of the apple bobbing. Kids did it for decades and lived – then again the average life expectancy was much shorter. But the thought of a bunch of slobbery day care petri dishes all slack jawed, with mouths full of water one after the other almost sent me into an episode.

So right before Thanksgiving with a looming snow day I decided to drag all the holiday decorations out of the garage and start decorating. Never one to pass up new adorable holiday décor or a great sale – in the last four years my holiday decorating has taken on a life of its own. In fact there are so many varying themes that each room (or display area in some cases) looks different. For instance the formal dining table has giant mod looking letters spelling out JOY in pink, green and blue and is surrounded by like-colored resin reindeers with glitter horns – on the buffet in the same room there are four (yep – four) different versions of small red Christmas trees. The mantle is all red, green and white, and the gifts under the tree this year are all wrapped exclusively in only red and white this year. And to round out the schizophrenic theme I have a few rustic looking felt and yarn birds with hats looking onto the whole scene from bookcases.

I feel the holiday hodge-podge is like a time capsule of my mental health. It has grown along with my motherhood and child. While some might see it as overwhelming I see our history and our joy. I remember last year when we took everything down right after Christmas the house looked so lonely and barren – it was almost like someone hacked away all the wonder and joy and left an empty shell. As the new year marched through winter, spring and summer the house was once again repopulated with new art work from Texas school, the several foot long twine that runs down the kitchen entrance was filled with mementos, ticket stubs, photos and event invitations all barely held on with tiny clothes pins. And by Halloween the whole downstairs seems to be bursting at the seams with bit and pieces of our days, months and hours.

Halloween to me always marks the beginning of the wonder-season – the magic of matching family costumes, cold weather (hopefully) and the knowledge that in the short time between October and December my life will be bustling with joy. I will see my whole family together in one place at least TWICE in that short period; I will learn new holiday songs from Texas (this year’s was in French) and teach him ridiculous holiday-lore. And when it is time to pack away the ornaments, the glitter covered reindeer and Crisbow (our Elf on the Shelf) I can look forward to what the next holiday will bring – maybe blue and silver for 2014 – really it’s anyone’s guess.

So, I am beginning to realize that kids the same age as Texas are NOT grilling their parents nightly about the daily happenings of their Elves. Each day when I pick him up from school I am confronted with a rapid fire of inquisition-like questioning about the back story on the blasted elf of the shelf.

Why does Crisbow not blink? If he goes to the North Pole every night where is his coat? When was Crisbow born? When will he die? Where are his parents? Did they die? Does he miss me for the rest of the year? Does he visit other kids or just me? Do they also call him Crisbow? Why will his magic go away if I touch him? How about if I put on gloves and carry him (our skin won’t be touching)?

And it is not the questions that bother me – it is the incessant lying I am forced into.  The lie is getting more and more elaborate and grotesque every day.

“Well, when you are born your elf is born too and Santa raises him until you are old enough to give him a name and then he comes to you every year until you get too old and then he retires to the North Pole toy making shop and spends the rest of his life (approximately 100-125 years) making toys and playing with other elves. He does not need a coat because of his magic and I think he was born from Christmas joy and Santa is like his parents.”

And as if this is not enough, you are forced into coordinated lying with other parents. “Okay, I told Texas that he and Alfie meet up every night and go back to the North Pole together….by the way, what did you say about Alfie’s coat? Does he have one? Crisbow just uses his elvish magic – I didn’t want to have to scour Etsy for tiny elf coats, which someone is probably making a fortune off of…”

So as it is with life things always change and with those changes sometimes it just stinks for awhile. My son in his infinite wisdom – on a trying night started to dig a hole and being one to not miss out on a good time, i started digging too. For three nights now we have dug – usually after a power struggle – we dig together and work as a team of two. I think it is cathartic.

I had jokingly been calling it our depression hole but the more I think about it – the hole is only depressing if we don’t eventually fill it with something good. So once we have dug out all this tension and sadness and resistance to change we will make it a fire pit to sit around and roast marshmallows and tell jokes. Because what is life if not an adventure destined for marshmallows.