How a Halloween Costume Changed My Life

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Here in the Monkey House, we like Star Wars. Actually, we're kind of obsessed. And it all started during the brief whirlwind of a courtship between Mr. Martini and I. One night after some, umm, imbibing, Mr. Martini opened the closet and seemingly out of thin air came five full replica light sabers -- the kind that could be a movie prop if you didn't know better. At the time, I could have cared less about Star Wars. That was until my first 2am parking lot light saber battle with the neighbors. I was intrigued.

My intrigue turned to shock when I learned that the handsome, refined, debonair Mr. Martini was in fact the world's biggest Star Wars geek. Upon moving in, I realized that most of the closet space in the apartment was filled with bin upon bin of unopened Star Wars figures, ranging from vintage to brand spanking new. This was not a passing casual interest. Oh no, this was a full on addiction. And apparently that is also a genetic trait passed from father to son in some weird Star Wars transferal during conception.

As Silly Monkey grew older, my husband's addiction grew too. He and my son became full on Star Wars junkies. They would go to the toy store and ogle over the figures they (**I said THEY**) didn't have. Mr. Martini would present a new Star Wars toy for the slightest act of good behavior, including throwing a snotty tissue away, drinking milk, or just standing up. My son would tell his teachers that he was not the droid they were looking for. And of course, they both mastered the art of using the force to open the entrance doors at Target. It was inescapable. Star Wars was everywhere. Star Wars was everything.

So it came as no surprise when Silly Monkey said he wanted to be R2D2 for Halloween. And of course there was not a single R2D2 costume in the galaxy that would fit this 3-year-old junkie. So being the enabler that I am, I decided to make one.

It took days, several trips to Office Depot, the hardware store, lots of glue, some power tools, and at least one phone call to the police as another mom at the store watched me gently place my son in a trash can to see if he's fit. As if I was making some kind of sick Silly Monkey casket. Dumbass.

But the result was quite spectacular, if I do say so myself.

 

 

 

That R2D2 became a trusted friend after Halloween. My son would wear him almost daily until the point when he could no longer comfortably fit into it. Then R2D2 became more of a side-kick, taking his place in Silly Monkey's room, defending against Tuscan Raiders and such. The evidence of love became visible as R2's ribbon spool arms fell off, as did his foam core legs. Soon, the decals that made him so identifiably R2 got rubbed off, torn, or washed off. After all, as any loving daddy droid would do, Silly Monkey tried to give his little life size R2D2 a bath.

We still have R2D2, and he is a well loved friend. All the paint is chipped off and there are big, long, sad strings of hot glue marking where his limbs once were. His head falls off regularly, and he has a smell somewhere between locker room and crayon box. Silly Monkey will keep this abomination until he is in college I have no doubt, and with that I am fine.

But we do keep the blinds closed when Silly Monkey takes him out of the closet, because now, when he squeezes himself into his former costume, he really is nothing but a large boy stuffed in a small trash can. And what would the neighbors think about that?

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