Mom, what do you think Big Foot is? I think it’s an advanced primate OR a caveman who survived and he’s so hairy because he doesn’t know what a salon is.
We turn out the porch light and sort through the candy.
I see him picking pieces out of the cauldron.
My heart sort of sinks when I watch him. I feel . . . bad? Guilty?
I look at the teenager and say, “Maybe you should have gotten candy tonight, then the two of you could have traded like you and your sister used to.”
“What,” the littlest says, overhearing and grabbing a chair at the island, too.
“Yeah,” says the teenager, “Sis and I used to pour our candy on the floor, sort it, and trade for our favorites. Like, I’d give her a Snickers for two Milky Way.”
The littlest thinks for a moment and says, “Well, Sis isn’t here anymore* and you don’t Trick-or-Treat, so I don’t have anyone to do that with.”
Guilt. Definitely guilt.
*Sis is our college freshman.
Describing the flavor of his sister’s kombucha: It tastes like demons trying to lick you. 😂
I’m watching lettering videos on Instagram and O, watching over my shoulder, shouts out, “Nicole!”
I say, “That doesn’t say ‘Nicole’.”
The smooth kid he is, he smirks and says, “Does it say ‘Gorgeous’?” 😏😂