I know now why they call today “All Saints Day.”   I can’t speak for everyone, but after surviving Halloween with small children I certainly feel like we should ALL be canonized.  I’m detoxing today from yesterday’s cocktail of sugar, martyrdom, joy and despair.  

We had it all in equal measure.  

My fairly simple assignment was to pick up my 3-year-old granddaughter from daycare, take her home and begin the process of converting her into a princess, (Fairy Grandmother style) while her mother multi-tasked at feeding the baby and getting dinner started.  Since this child literally stays in “Princess Mode” 24/7, how difficult could my role actually be?

Harder than you might imagine.  

The challenge commenced as she clambered into her car seat, asking,

 “Do you have my dress?”  

I quickly explained that we were headed straight to her house, where her dress was ready and waiting.  She immediately registered annoyance at my obvious ineptitude. I guess she wanted to change in the parking lot?   I had a 20+ year flash-forward of her as a Bridezilla one day.  Hopefully I’m not her Maid of Honor.

As we drove home she explained to me that she wanted her hair to look exactly, “like Belle’s when she comes down the stairs!”  She was astonishingly specific for a 37 month old human. Now, for anyone who hasn’t had the pleasure of watching “Beauty and The Beast” 4600 times like I have, Belle sports several different hairstyles throughout the show and this child has selected the most regally complicated one. 

 But, of course.  

And, trust me, it wasn’t enough that she was going as Belle from “Beauty and The Beast,” she additionally requested a live prop…her infant brother was being coerced into an itchy, furry Beast costume to complete her ensemble to perfection. True…it was indeed cuteness overload…for at least  5 minutes…all up until he started screaming in protest when he realized he had been commissioned as a mere theatrical prop – a backdrop to his sister’s drama. 

Get used to it Lil dude.

As soon as my daughter manipulated 20 or so spiral curls in Her Majesty’s hair, my granddaughter looked over at me, sitting on the couch with my wine soothing myself and “the beast” and requested her “make-ups!”

That’s when things spiraled faster than her locks…

It seems I had left her “Tiny Tot Glamour Kit” at my house!  But, no worries, she managed to bounce back in record time – a little less than 45 minutes.  Suffice it to say, it was 45 minutes of accusations, crocodile tears and lip trembling before we managed to convince the child that her mother actually owned some quality make up she could lend her.

I’m not usually one to brag, but it only took 6 adults about an hour to get 3 small children out the door to trick-or-treat.  (Disclaimer: some of us were drinking.)

Apparently things weren’t any less dramatic south of here in Dallas…

According to my youngest daughter, my 2-year-old granddaughter approached trick-or-treating like a drunk sorority sister.  She vacillated between the irrational exuberance of a “WOO-HOO Girl” and the despondence of the Over-Served.  When the sober, sensible people around her gently suggested perhaps it was time to, “call it a night,” she violently shrugged them off, loudly protesting that she was “still having fun,” as she found random things to weep about in between houses.  I wasn’t there, but it sure sounds like a typical Bar Crawl on Any Campus USA.  

I did try to FaceTime them after they got her home, but was told by her emotionally exhausted and depleted parents that she couldn’t come to the phone, as she was indisposed – crying herself to sleep.   And, for what it was worth, they informed me, they were counting down the hours until the clock strikes midnight, when they hoped their little Cinderella would turn back into a humble scullery maid.  

So naieve.  That’s the stuff of fairy tales!  I’ve been at this long enough to know that is NEVER going to happen.  As they say, the genie never goes back in the bottle and once a princess always a princess…

…They’d  be better off pouring themselves another glass of wine and counting on midnight to bring about All Saints Day, resting in the assurance that All Parents are All Saints.  

And I’m starting to think All Grandparents are too.