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Open Letter to my eldest son:
You’re getting older. It’s a cool thing to witness, really. You’re determining your own hair style now. You’re choosing your own clothes. You’re responsible for your own homework and you make your own friends. You tell your own jokes, and sometimes, they’re genuinely funny now. But there’s one benchmark I’m not particularly loving. You know what it is. We’ve discussed it at length this week.
Your taste in Halloween costumes.
No, you cannot be a ‘bloody guy’. That’s not even a thing. You cannot be a ‘dude on the run’, wearing ripped clothes and (again) fake blood, because that doesn’t even make sense. If you’re a ‘lame guy’, no one will even know who you are. And if I have to explain these things to you, you’re not quite ready to take on costume creation.
Remember when your costumes ideas were limited (by your own innocence) to animals and cartoon characters? You’d be a monkey or else Spiderman. Or a dragon or maybe Thomas the Tank Engine. Even last year, you were the cutest George Weasley ever. My point? Only preteens want to smear fake blood all over their faces and draw guts on a T-shirt and call it a costume. Tell me that’s not you.