“Daddy, pleaseeeeeee?” “Yeah, daddy, come on!”

I stare down at the twins with an unamused face as they beg and plead, still firm on my decision.

“Kids, I’m not dressing up as Dorothy and that’s final. If you want to do Wizard of Oz so bad, then have your mother dress up as Dorothy.”

My stern response instantly causes the double whining to start back up, and I groan as I glance over at you in the doorway. You’re trying to remain neutral throughout the discussion, but you can’t fool me.

I already see the makeup bag hidden behind your back.

It’s the morning of Halloween, and our three year old twins Oliver and Charlotte have been quite obsessed with the Wizard of Oz lately. This lead to them deciding to dress up as the lion (Charlotte) and the tin man (Oliver).

Except they waited until morning of to add that they also want you to dress up as scarecrow and me to dress up as Dorothy.

Me. The most terrifying, intimidating, ruthless, stone cold, violent, dangerous mafia boss in the entirety of the UK.

Right. No. Not happening.

Granted, all of that behavior instantly evaporates when I’m around you and the kids. You bring out the best side of me that I only reserve for the three of you, and no one else.

…Okay, I also reserve it for my mother and sister. But that’s seriously it.

My men would have an absolute field day if they saw me exit this property wearing makeup and bows. God forbid I also have to wear the damn dress.

I open my mouth to once again reject the idea, but pause midway when I look down at Charlotte and Oliver.

Those little rascals.

They know the one way to get me to do anything they want, and it’s their damn puppy dog eyes.

“No, no, don’- don’t give me that look,” I say, but my tone is weak.

“Please, daddy?” They both say in unison, and I curse myself for teaching them how to say things at the same time a year ago to be funny.

It’s no longer funny. I set myself up with that one.

I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose and muttering one or two swear words under my breath.

“Fine.”