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But that was before the intense competitiveness of preschool entered the picture. I had to face off with moms who take their kids costumes to be a direct reflection of their mothering skills. The kind who buy patterns and sew the costumes after special-ordering the fabric. Who dress their daughters as Snow White, right down to the weird collar, and spiff the family dog up to look like a hairy dwarf. People who do Halloween with style, verve and a dedication that's, well, kind of scary.
It was because of people like these that I discovered I was a bad mommy, or at the very least, an incompetent mommy. It happened on the day my hobo went to preschool in the company of a legion of Disney princesses and Darth Vaders. Not a single kid wore one of those cheap nylon costumes that tie at the neck and have a skeleton painted on the front. Not another other hobo showed her face. Instead, the little girls were busy comparing their glass slippers while my child tried not trip over the hem of her father's old flannel shirt.
When I picked Liz up at the end of the day she told me that no one knew what a hobo was. I was stricken. How could anyone go through life not knowing about hobos? It was downright un-American.
But kids heal quickly and I pretty much forgot about the hobo fiasco, instead getting on with my life and going back to the rigors of preschool motherhood, which mostly meant figuring out how to make sandwiches shaped like cute animals for the school picnic.
And before I knew it, it was Halloween again and I had to come up with another costume that would excite and dazzle all the other mothers and kids. She refused to be a hobo again and I hadn't a clue as to what we could do. So I looked around and found Elizabeth's dance recital costume.
It was hot pink, bright yellow and lime green. A one-shouldered thing with a ruffle and a bottom half built for a samba. It glowed in the dark. I put it on her. | 
