On the drive back from an early trick-or-treat stop at Grandma Diane's house, my son and I discussed strategy for the evening. Should we hit a couple of blocks in our neighborhood? Hit a block in Uncle Thom's neighborhood then ours, like last year? Or go somewhere new?
He opted for new. After hanging the balloon ghost he made with Grandpa Cook on our front porch, we headed to a nearby street known for its chocolate and scary decorations.
Our first stop was a friend's house along the way, then nearly door-to-door in the first block on the chosen street.
Things were going smoothly until we reached the haunted graveyard where a girl holding a plastic machete and severed head invited him in. "I don't want to go there, Mom," he said. We hit the next house then crossed the street to where two costumed girls sat on a porch handing out candy. He kept glancing back at the graveyard.
Let's take another look, I suggested, misinterpreting his glances. This time a witch mixing potions and a hideous clown beckoned. "Mom, I want to go home now," he said. I encouraged him to stop at a couple of houses on the way. But no amount of coaxing could change his mind.
Once we hit our block he was confident again, skipping up to doors of neighbors that he knows. He joked with the couple across the street about the bloody hand in their mailbox being that of our mailman and laughed at a mechanical spider that dropped down when he stepped onto another neighbor's porch.
He opted for new. After hanging the balloon ghost he made with Grandpa Cook on our front porch, we headed to a nearby street known for its chocolate and scary decorations.
Our first stop was a friend's house along the way, then nearly door-to-door in the first block on the chosen street.
Things were going smoothly until we reached the haunted graveyard where a girl holding a plastic machete and severed head invited him in. "I don't want to go there, Mom," he said. We hit the next house then crossed the street to where two costumed girls sat on a porch handing out candy. He kept glancing back at the graveyard.
Let's take another look, I suggested, misinterpreting his glances. This time a witch mixing potions and a hideous clown beckoned. "Mom, I want to go home now," he said. I encouraged him to stop at a couple of houses on the way. But no amount of coaxing could change his mind.
Once we hit our block he was confident again, skipping up to doors of neighbors that he knows. He joked with the couple across the street about the bloody hand in their mailbox being that of our mailman and laughed at a mechanical spider that dropped down when he stepped onto another neighbor's porch.
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