I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with Halloween. I loved it when I was a kid. I even loved hating those weird people who handed out Corn nuts instead of candy (hi, Mom and Dad).

It's so much more complicated for parents—especially when kids hit those golden elementary school years. And therein lies my hate.

I didn't know how good I had it when Lucy was little. She was just a babe in arms for her first Halloween, and the concept of grandchildren was new enough to my mom that the idea of sewing a bee suit for a baby didn't seem like a waste of energy at all.

The next year, when Lucy was toddling around and very interested in that funny brown stuff called "chockwat," I put off making a costume until Halloween arrived. She wore a body suit and tights with a pair of frilly panties on the outside. I topped the whole thing off with a cloth diaper around her shoulders and called her Captain Underpants. She was a hit.

Now, the kids are really particular about their costumes. They'd rather die than have visible panties.

To make matters worse, they keep changing their minds. Alice, for example, was very hot on the idea of being a scary robot around January. So for her birthday, which was in February, Adam ordered her a robot suit from some sci-fi nerd store.

Here's a tip: Do not buy your child's Halloween costume in February. It will no longer seem like a good idea in August, September or October, which my kids consider the official season for discussion about costumes and candy strategy runs.

We all complain about how long the presidential campaign season is. This is where it starts, people. How can we expect these kids to run the country someday if they can't even decide between scary robot, scary cat and scary Golden Retriever? Note to Alice: I am not voting for you until you stop with the flip-flopping!

In Alice's defense, she at least has been consistent with the scary part. She is 4, she weighs 29 pounds, and she is earnestly planning to strike terror in the hearts of people who will give her free candy by dressing in a gold robot suit or as a soft fuzzy animal. You have to like that kind of moxie.

Lucy has been consistent in her own way, too. She plans to wear the Chocolate Lab suit my mom and I made for my niece long before I had children of my own. This is the same suit Lucy rejected last year when she wanted to be a "pretty witch."

My mom made the body and I made the head using chicken wire, papier mache, faux fur and a scrap of pleather that I carefully shaped so it would look like a real dog's nose. It's an incredible costume, and if it hadn't been sitting in my closet for the past two years, I would have no recollection of being the kind of person who had the time to shop for chicken wire.

Someday, I might have that kind of time again. But unless Alice decides soon what she wants to be, I'm going to put a leash in her hand and walk Lucy around. I call it her "adult" costume—and if that isn't scary, I don't know what is.