The air is a decadent cocktail of scents—caramel apples bubbling in giant copper pots, funnel cakes dusted with powdered sugar snow, hot chocolate topped with ghost-shaped marshmallows, and the distinctive sweet-spicy aroma of pumpkin spice everything.
I adjust Ella in her stroller, marveling at how adorable she looks in her pumpkin pie costume. The plush triangular slice engulfs her tiny body, with just her face peeking out from the whipped cream collar, and a little stem hat perched on her head.
The fabric glistens in the afternoon sun, tiny sequins catching the light like dew on a real pumpkin. We’ve even added miniature cinnamon stick rattles to her wrists, though she’s made three determined attempts to eat them already.
This is costume number twelve of the week—only twenty-three more to go before Halloween itself. At this rate, I’ll need to invest in a climate-controlled costume storage facility to store them all.
“There they are!” Mom’s voice rises above the festival noise, and I spot our family gathering near the caramel apple stand. Mom looks resplendent in her bee costume from the other day (waste not, want not is her motto) as she waves enthusiastically. Beside her, Dad—aka Nathaniel Baker, the silver fox of Spider Cove—sports a lumberjack costume that’s suspiciously similar to his everyday attire, just with a more deliberate flannel selection.
Gwyneth, Jasper’s mother, stands ramrod straight in what appears to be a historically accurate Victorian mourning dress, complete with a tiny hat perched at a precise angle on her impeccable silver-streaked dark hair. It’s both impressive and slightly terrifying, which sums up Gwyneth rather neatly.
Georgie rounds out the group in what can only be described as the most bewildering costume choice of the evening. Her silver lamé uniform is so short it barely qualifies as coverage, complete with an alien antenna bobbing from her head and a stethoscope that lights up in neon colors.
“Georgie,” I can’t help but ask, “what exactly are you supposed to be?”
“I’m a naughty nurse from Mars, obviously,” she replies with the confidence of someone who thinks this explanation clarifies everything rather than raising additional questions. “It’s very avant-garde.”
The effect is less medical professional and more intergalactic party crasher with questionable credentials, and knowing Georgie, that’s probably exactly what she was going for.
“Look who’s here! It’s my little Ellie-Belly!” Dad calls out, immediately abandoning all dignity to make googly faces at Ella. “Come to Grandpa, you little pumpkin!”
Before I can even park the stroller properly, Gwyneth swoops in like a Victorian-era hawk. “Nathaniel, you’re overwhelming her.Babies need a gentle approach.” She demonstrates by softly cooing at Ella while simultaneously elbowing Dad out of the prime baby-viewing position with the precision of a seasoned linebacker.
Dad inches back to get a better look at his haunted-looking bride. “I raised three children of my own, Gwyn,” he points out, reclaiming his spot with the subtlety of a bulldozer. “I think I know a thing or two about babies.”
“Yes, and look how they turned out,” Gwyneth mutters, although there’s no real venom in it. She’s actually grown fond of our family’s particular brand of chaos, even though she’d rather eat her tiny hat than admit it.
The turf war continues as Fish, Sherlock, and Fudge weave around our feet, taking in the festival sights and smells with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
So many small hoomans in costume,Fish observes from her position of safety beneath the stroller.I can’t tell if they’re supposed to be scary or adorable. Either way, I find them suspicious.
I like the ones dressed as hot dogs!Sherlock woofs, and his tail wags as he eyes a toddler waddling past dressed as a plush sausage.They smell confusing but friendly!
Heath would have loved this,Fudge sniffs with a doggy sigh.He always put me in the best costumes.
Poor thing. I’ll have to continue the tradition.
A herd of elementary schoolers in an array of costumes parades past us, all sporting identical bright green wristbands that glow like alien appendages against their disguises. There are tiny superheroes with capes flapping in the breeze, miniature monsters with felt teeth and fabric claws, princess warriors wielding both tiaras and swords, and at least a dozen variations of dinosaurs ranging from scientifically accurate to cartoonishly cute.
Their harried-looking teachers, also wearing the green bands plus neon pink witches’ hats for easy identification, clutch clipboards, and walkie-talkies with the desperate energy of an outnumbered general. And they are so outnumbered.
“Remember, everyone with a green band gets THREE tickets, and no more!” one teacher calls out with the authority of someone who’salready repeated this seventeen times. “Choose your activities wisely! And stay with your monster group!”
This announcement is met with the collective groan of children who clearly believe that wisdom and festival tickets don’t belong in the same sentence.
“Look how well-behaved those kids are,” Gwyneth points out, momentarily distracted from the baby custody battle at hand. “When Jasper was that age, we had strict rules about field trips. No running, no shouting, and absolutely no cotton candy.”
“You didn’t let Jasper have cotton candy?” Georgie looks genuinely horrified as if Gwyneth has just admitted to canceling Christmas. “No wonder he became a cop. The man needed to rebel somehow.”
Mom finally manages to extract Ella from the grandparental tug-of-war, settling the baby comfortably in her arms. “I was always so strict about junk food with you three,” she says with a wistful smile. “No sugar after four PM, vegetables at every meal, and a piece of fruit for dessert.”
I nod at the memory. “That explains why Macy tried to trade me for a funnel cake when I was six.”
“She was just being entrepreneurial.” Mom is quick to defend her older daughter while bouncing Ella gently. “Besides, that nice carnival worker brought you right back.”
“Only because Macy refused to throw in her cotton candy as part of the deal,” I point out.
Dad steps closer to Mom, peering down at Ella with an expression so tender it makes my heart squeeze. “Look at her, Ree,” he says softly. “She looks just like one of ours, doesn’t she?”
