“And when I’m 35, I’m going as Thor’s second cousin’s hairdresser…”

Ah, Halloween…the time of year when we can dress our children up like the living nightmares that they are. I kid.

One thing that my children are learning about this Halloween is that you have to lock in those costume choices early–just like Christmas gifts. If I don’t know what you want by November 17^th then you’re getting whatever I can find at Sam’s (“Dear Santa, thank you for the 300-count box of vacuum bags. I didn’t know what to do with them, so I gave them to Mommy. She laughed like Ursula from The Little Mermaid. It was scary.”)

Suttie decided back in July that he wanted to be Jack Skellington after seeing The Nightmare Before Christmas for the first time. He also decided that it was crucial to the authenticity of the character to learn all of Jack’s songs and dance moves and to perform them for us twice daily. Thanks, Tim Burton, you sorry son of a bitch.

So the search began. We went to the ends of the internet searching for a Jack Skellington costume and only found one: a $55 number from somewhere in the UK that we unearthed on ebay. And four days later, after I talked myself into buying a $55 used costume, Jack was on his way to our house. I even ordered him some separate skeleton gloves to complete the ensemble because I’m just that kind of super mom–you know, the kind that worries about skeleton gloves but can't remember if the kids actually had a bath this week or if we just talked about it.

But after the Jack costume arrived and his excitement died down, Suttie saw a picture of the latest Ironman movie and declared that he wanted to be Ironman for Halloween. Say what?! Uh-uh, hells to the no, you are going to be Jack Skellington if I have to glue that mask to your face and round out our night of trick or treating with an ER visit to have it removed.

And every week it seems, he’s got some new character that he’d just love to be for Halloween: Thor, Luke Skywalker, Spiderman, all of the Ninja Turtles…at once, a kid with a limited understanding of personal space (no costume necessary). He’s even started charting out his costumes for the next several Halloweens to make sure that he covers them all: “And when I’m 32, I’m going as Batman, and when I’m 33, I’m going as Robin, and when I’m 34, I’m going as their butler.” It’s good to see him planning for the future.

But the only thing that’s worse than Suttie asking for a new costume every other day is his constant queries about what I’m going to be because apparently an exhausted, overworked, overstressed mother of two was soooo last year.

Now, I consider my husband and me to be “fun” parents. We have tickle fights and wrestling matches (with the kids, not each other….weirdo), we risk staph infection going to Chuck E. Cheese, we make jokes at the kids’ expense. But we draw the line at dressing up like Mario and Luigi to drag our children from door to door hours after they were ready to go home...cause $55, people. We don’t really have a strong reason to back us up on this other than the fact that the kids make us look like idiots enough on a non-costume day. And like most true Americans, we like to take a stand before we've thought up any real reasons to do so.

So tomorrow, when Suttie asks me what I’m dressed up as for the big night, I’m going to tell him the truth…that I’m an undercover spy with an invisible uniform and hidden weapons. Because blatant trickery is the third line of defense in my parenting arsenal behind bribery and hiding the good snacks in my closet.

P.S. Here's a glimpse of Suttie as a young Jack Skellington. He made me post this:

For better, for worse, for richer, for....pass.

2013 has been an unlucky year of expenses for the O’Neals. I don’t want to bore you with the details, but here are the highlights: a brand new trampoline that hated our kids so much that it chose a mangled death in a field over their happiness, a dish washer that out-logiced us when it found no reason to clean our plates since we’d be dirtying them up again anyway, two car batteries that wanted to meet Jesus on the first day of our vacation, and some truck wiring that was far too appetizing to the local field mice. Such is life….especially for the O’Neals whose bad luck can only be rivaled by the descendants of Stanley Yelnats.

On the up side, I’ve racked up an impressive amount of credit card points with the sweetness that is 1% cashback , so it’s all good. I mean, who isn’t willing to spend $3000 to get $30 back?

Amid such financial hickups is when the differences between men and women and how we approach spending really shine. Now, Sutton and I have similar viewpoints on the big issues: we treat most things with humor, especially if it’s inappropriate; we value our time together as well as our time apart; and we never eat after 9:30 at night. I don’t pretend to know the secret of good relationships, and Lord knows that I’ve had many fail (I mean a lot…like a whole lot…seriously, I got around), but this is what works for us.

We even have a shared ideology when it comes to spending: DON’T. Apparently, cheap is contagious, and I caught a bad case right after I married an engineer. Yes, we’re serious about saving money, but not in a doomsday-prepper kind of way. It’s more of an our-kids-break-everything-we’ve-ever-bought-and-their-replacements kind of way. However, when money has to be spent, my financial philosophy and that of my husband occupy different time zones.

For example, Sutton might say something dumb like, “Kate, we need x, y, and z home repairs, or our house is going to collapse around us,” and my totally reasonable response might be, “No, what we need is some new throw pillows in the bedroom because the old ones are jacking up the French provincial vibe that I’ve been trying to copy from The Bronson Pinchot Project for two and a half weeks. You know that my best friend just redid her living room, so if you don’t let me do this, you might as well kill me now!”

Both are equally valid claims, with one being slightly more valid than the other (I needed those pillows, people), but they showcase how differently we approach our spending habits: mine focus on creature comforts and his try to keep us alive.

Similarly, I can justify buying a $49 set of Pottery Barn place card holders for a Christmas dinner that consists only of our parents and two small, place card-eating children, but if he comes home with a 20oz. Mountain Dew that wasn’t on my shopping list, I’m looking around the house for things to sell.

We also differ drastically in how we keep track of our finances. My husband hasn’t kept a checkbook register in…forever.  Literally never has. Money comes in, some goes out, some stays…he’s good with that vague sense of awareness.

Not me. I work out our bills and chart our monthly/yearly savings goals down to the penny – with no less than 5 calculator windows open on my computer at a time. In fact, I’ve already got us mapped out for 2014. And if there is a seventy-five cent difference in where we are and where I thought we’d be, well, let’s just say the kids know where the emergency smelling salts are stashed.

And that’s not to say that he’s not an excellent financial planner; thankfully for my sometimes part-time, sometimes no-time working ass, his financial wisdom is always on point. He’s just so much less panicked about it than I am, which makes me jealous, which then pisses me off. So what’s the moral of the story? Saving money is great and definitely a wise decision in these uncertain economic times, but sometimes Mama needs her hand-knotted throw pillows, and everyone’s gonna have to just deal, okay?

The 5 Stages of Parenting Grief

I realized something today as I watched Molly throw a fit in Publix because one of the bag people (politically correct?) tried to give her a balloon. When your child is pitching a full tilt, throw-self-on-floor, smack-at-strangers hissy fit, as a parent, you go through a series of emotions that mirrors the five stages of grief.

Stage 1: Denial

The first response when your child goes rogue is to simply deny that it’s happening. Yep, just keep throwing those groceries up on the belt, exchange pleasantries with the clerk, pick out some gum, all while ignoring the fact that your child is now dangling from the cart by the safety belt after various rage-induced contortions.

Another form of denial is to acknowledge that this child is out of control, but to pretend that she isn’t yours. I like to look around with a concerned expression and hold my hand over my eyes, like I’m trying to spot the offending parents; then turn back to the cashier and shrug, as if to say, “They just let anyone have kids these days, am I right?”

Stage 2: Anger

Obviously, once you admit to yourself that this thrashing child is yours and that Pandora’s box has, in fact, opened and all hell is now loose in your buggy, your blood will boil at your fit-throwing child. Yes, you understand that they are too little to deal with the world in a calm and rational way and that certain things (e.g., a free balloon) will send them spiraling into an abyss of wrath and confusion. But that doesn’t make you any less pissed that this is happening for the entire checkout line to see.

And it doesn’t just stop with your child. You’re mad at everyone in the effing store; hell, everyone who even thought about going to that store today. You’re mad at the bag person (still doesn’t feel right), the checkout clerk, that d-bag of a balloon, the balloon’s manufacturer, and your husband…because when things go wrong during your day of mothering, there’s really only one person to blame – the SOB who did this to you…twice.

Stage 3: Bargaining

Now, there’s a lot more bargaining that goes on in the O’Neal household than I care to admit. Seriously, these kids could turn a loose puzzle piece into a pet elephant after a day on Craigslist.

But when they’re acting a fool in public and all of the threats and punishments and stories of gypsies that steal bad children have lost their mojo, then I’m willing to offer up damn near anything (a sucker, a new doll, a unicorn) to get us out of there so that I can really let them have it.

Stage 4: Depression

In my experience, there are two kinds of depression that set in when your child has decided to become a crying, sweating lump of dead weight outside of your home. One is the kind that you leave in your child’s backside after the fifteenth fit of the day. Just kidding….ehh.

Then there’s the genuine article: “I’m a failure as a parent. My child is never going to listen; things will never get better.” In these moments, it’s easy to imagine your child as a grown adult, lying face down on the floor of a conference room, wailing and beating his feet and fists because an important contract fell through.  But this too shall pass…right into the next stage of back talk and direct defiance, but more on that later.

Stage 5: Acceptance

The fifth and final stage of parenting grief as your child continues his or her tantrum is acceptance. Thank, God! You made it. You have now come to the realization that you can never leave your house ever, ever again. And once you accept that, you can begin to cope.

I recommend online shopping, and if you’re looking for someone to talk to, QVC has some really lovely operators.