#thetoby needed a school-friendly costume to wear to kindergarten today for Halloween. He wanted to be Marshall from Paw Patrol.

We found out about the “dress like your favorite book character” theme on Sunday night, which started the Marshall train rolling. While I technically could have wielded my Amazon Prime power to get a Marshall costume to the house on time, I am the epitome of an “okayest mom ever.” I just didn’t want to spend another $25 on a costume when my kid had so conveniently decided to be a cow this year for his trick-or-treating escapades. You see, we already had a cow costume (that he’d worn to pre-school last year) in the closet, and it still fit him. I mean, that’s the very definition of no-effort, okayest mom. #winning I couldn’t sully that lack of effort by conjuring up a Marshall outfit at the last minute. I mean, he might start expecting me to be more than okay.

We cleverly came up with a compromise—he could wear the firefighter outfit he got at Christmas to school and sort of be Marshall. If Marshall were a tiny human instead of an animated Dalmatian. Kids learn quickly what a compromise is when you’re content keeping the momming at okayest ever level.

So this morning, Toby was decked out in his fireman’s outfit, which is really quite elaborate, with all kinds of tools and a pretty heavy duty helmet. My mom (who likes to label presents “From Santa”) had given it to Toby at Christmas after I’d procured it. Toby examined the large badge on the front of the helmet carefully, then asked me, “Why doesn’t this badge have my name on it like the ones on the helmets of the real firefighters?”

In the middle of fixing his lunch, I blithefully replied, “Oh, there wasn’t an option to add a name when I ordered it.”

There was a pretty weighty silence from his direction, and I glanced up at him. He was leveling me with a stony glare.

“But mom, SANTA got me this.”

Shit.

I had zero memory of what the tag said on that present 10 months ago, but believe you me, I am 100 percent sure my kid remembers what it read. “Oh, that’s right,” I babbled. “Well, I think maybe the elves in Santa’s workshop didn’t have time to add your name.”

“Why did you say you picked it out if the elves made it?”

You know how they say that when someone’s lying, they add too many details? Yep, I fell in that trap. I kept going. “You know,” I said. “Santa talks to Mom before Christmas to find out what you want. You send him a list, but sometimes he needs more information or I give him other ideas. I think I suggested the firefighter outfit to Santa for you.”

Another long silence. I nervously glanced over at him, eating his breakfast with the wheels in his brain spinning.

“But Mom, the firefighter jacket is too big for me. If you talk to Santa and tell him about me, why didn’t you tell him my right size?”

Seriously, people, what would YOU say to that?

I was pretty stumped, but I think I came up with, “Well, Mom just wanted to make sure you had room to grow into it so you could wear it for a lot of years.”

He just sat and stared at me with an inscrutable gaze. I honestly cannot tell you if he still believes in Santa and was genuinely asking questions, then pondering why my answers reeked of bullshit, or if he’s sussed out the Santa thing and was epically trolling me. His expression revealed no indication either way. But I have a pretty good feeling that with his freakish memory and my sloppy Santa narrative, we’re hurtling headlong toward the Santa myth being debunked far too early.