Over 18! Halloweenies!

So I present to you the question of what, really, makes an adult?  The magic number is supposed to be 18. But I’m seeing things that make me wonder if we need a Maturity Card like the old AMEX commercials. That is, Don’t Leave Home Without It.

Grow Up, he says!

 I submit Exhibit A, Competitive Trick-or-Treating:

OK, not quite trick or treating. We had a Halloween Egg Haunt tonight whereby a big soccer field is fettered with orange and black plastic eggs filled with candy. The instructions were: “Parents, stay along the fence line and let the children run on the field at the end of the countdown.”

You know what’s coming, don’t you?

3…2…1…

Good Parents (A-hem. That would be me.) stayed on the fence line.

Bad Parents rushed the field like it was a championship game. At first they were moderately aggressive in coaching their children:

 “COME ON, Bradley, there’s one RIGHT in front of you, son! How could you not see that one before the little Lady Gaga got it?”

Then the Bad Parents started to take matters into their own hands. They stood in front of eggs so other little kids couldn’t see them before their kid did. They started to corral the eggs oh-so-not-discretely around their feet, much like the Emperor Penguin balances eggs on his feet until they hatch:

IMAGE: He's supposed to be hiding that egg under there.

Then it was no-holds-barred for the Bad Parents. They outright DIVED for eggs, wiping out little princesses and vampires.

“Bradley, I got four eggs for you! Come here, quick!” pretend-whispered Bad Dad.

 And that’s when the Good Parents had enough of this and went to settle up. 

But it was a really curious thing; Brad’s Bad Dad was dressed like a freaky werewolf from hell, and Good Dad was kind of straight from work. Frankly, it didn’t look like an even match. In fact it seemed like all the Bad Parents were witches, monsters, zombies, or vampires and the ones on the fence line were in suits and ties. Typecasting? Life imitating art? Oh, why don't I have a camera at these moments?

So before we knew it, the officials were clearing the field, and some children had managed to get two eggs in their bag before Bad Dads stepped on their fingers. The offspring of the bully parents had like forty-three eggs each. Which I guess is okay, because inside was crap candy like Atomic Fireballs and Sweet Tarts, which nobody likes anyhow. (P.S. Sign of the times! Where’s the chocolate, people? I bird dog my child to bring me back CHOCOLATE, not stinking Atomic Fireballs! Am I right? Can I get a Wha-Wha?)

Do not send my child back with these in her Halloween bag, please.

I spent good money on a Disney princess costume and expect a little appreciation in the form of chocolate.

 Immature? No! Just because I plunder the treat bag in the privacy of my own home does not make me immature. Does it?