"It's still not right."

You turned towards the sound of Art's voice, brow furrowing as you watched him fiddle with the wings of your infant daughter's Halloween costume. The idea "bay-bee" had come to him in a dream, and ever since he was insatiable. No store bought costume was good enough. He had called a ridiculously overpriced custom onesie on Etsy "laughable".

So he forced you to teach him how to sew, spent hours poring over fabrics at the store downtown (the one closer to home was 'high school production of Cats' quality, according to him). He made the ribbing for little wings and did the calculations on how big her measurements would be by Halloween, even taking the time to sew her matching booties and gloves so that she could be outside with you two as you handed candy out all night. Cue research on how long infants can be outside and what they need to be wearing and if they should only be held and and and-

So your perfect, perfect little cherub of a daughter would spend her first Halloween dressed in just about the cutest damn bumblebee costume you'd ever seen. Art couldn't have cared less about the two of you, finding two cheap beekeeper costumes online and getting them express shipped. Everything else, though? Planned to a T.

He'd spend an unspeakable amount on new decorations, deeming so many of them too gaudy, too loud, too scary... your husband had turned into an adjective generator. One night, he asked if he should poll the neighborhood kids to see what the favorite candies were. You wondered if he'd finally gone mental. But now, watching him fuss over the wings he had spent so much time creating, sewing and embellishing so painstakingly, you knew it had happened. Confirmation of insanity.

He rolls his eyes when he sees your expression, picking one up while your daughter coos in his arms, freshly woken from a nap. "They're not sitting right- what if they're not visible, and no one can tell what she is?"

All you can do is stare at your child, outfitted in black and yellow stripes, and sigh.