On my long list of things no one tells you about parenting—call this one #567—I’d put one simple word: Halloween. From all those childhood years of your own and those mounds of high fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated oils heaped on the supermarket shelves (more each year, it would seem) you know that Halloween exists, sure. But as a parent, Halloween is more… complicated.
For one thing, there are costumes. I’m sure a zillion “mommy-bloggers” will write about buy-versus-create costume conundrums. With Al Gore having set up camp on my shoulder, you can hazard a correct guess that I abhor buying crap (made in China, no less) for one-time use. While crafty people tend to like Halloween in my experience, I am so not crafty.
I probably need say little more about how I feel about Halloween costumes.
Or the crappy candy no one needs; I feel terribly handing it out. I also live in a pretty big house. One of its best features is a prominent, welcoming front porch, so I’m neither willing to hand out raisins or something likely to disappoint kids nor—doling out on average 14 bags of treats per year—am I actually willing to invest in expensive fair-trade, organic—and often halfheartedly received—treats on that scale (ch-ching). I find myself dispensing things I’d rather not give out but feel somewhat compelled to offer (rather than pencils or sesame-honey candies). The candy—bad-for-your-teeth or high fat presents another dilemma—tugs at me just a little, alongside the guilt over the big house.
For the in-school celebration, I sign up to bring the healthy snack (having fought for about two years to ensure one’s included in the first place).
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Okay, but my Halloween aversion, lest anyone think I’m one of those loved-going-to-camp-hated-being-a-counselor types, precedes all these parental or global citizen concerns. True story: at the age of maybe four (five?) I went to my cubby to fetch my Halloween costume for the celebration at my little preschool—and found the cubby empty. Please be clear on this point, I do not hold a grudge towards my mama about this one (the ear piercing—cough—um, yeah) I totally get it. This is life. People forget things. I did feel mortified and I am pretty sure that helplessness stoked the Halloween uneasiness forevermore. I don’t much like Halloween, so I don’t care.
My mother’s not crafty and not a big treat-hander-outer. I think it’s safe to assume I wasn’t going to love Halloween no matter what, at least from the standpoint of lineage. My father, former elementary school principal, would not—never no how—ever have donned a costume to amuse his kids, his students, raise money for a good cause. No, no and no, he wore clothes, thank you very much. He did not wear costumes.
All that said I enjoyed plenty of exhilarating and fun Halloweens in my youth, tucking into my sensory memory bank the thrill of roaming a neighborhood so known by daylight in the darkness, and the expected yet giddy thrill of happening upon folks you know and being surprised by their cloaked and craftily or store-boughtily hidden selves.
And sure, I went to parties, yet my fascination with party going—and certainly partying—was pretty darn short-lived. I went to Hampshire College, where one of the most infamous Halloween parties—maybe in its heyday, college parties period—took place—and I have never once not never ever attended, never even stayed on campus over a Halloween weekend. I’ve avoided it. Even as a Hampshire Trustee, I declined invitations to serve Halloween celebrating students pancakes at two in the morning.
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To those thinking I’ve been similarly unenthused about Halloween with my kiddies as my parents were with me, I offer this somewhat tepid objection. With some collaborative help (solicited by yours truly), we’ve pulled off many stellar costumes if I do say so myself: Glinda Good Witch of the North was probably just about the best of the best (Ezekiel made a gorgeous Glinda). Notably, too, we’ve had Sean, who mows the lawn, a telephone, and a lobster in a pot (I saw one on a blog recently, no better than ours), Saskia’s one year older BFF Arella (and now, for the first and possibly last time I’ve used BFF in an essay) and Hydra.
I’ve been champion of more-more-more Halloween adventures and protected a terrified Remy—circa age three—with snacks and love in the playroom, safely removed from all the costumed hubbub, as needed.
As Remy spends his traditional month of October dreading the school’s Halloween parade, I was reminded why I’d never be a good homeschooling mama; when his teacher asked me how the anxiety over the parade was and I replied that her suggestion that those who didn’t really want to dress up simply be “green” and thusly just wear green had been relayed to me, we both knew his worries were being lovingly held at home and at school, by two empathic adults. I am sure that having other adults quietly and graciously “get it” about my kid(s) is one of the chief reasons I’m partial to school.
If ever there was doubt about Remy’s aversion to the costumed spotlight, it can rest here. Remy’s papa announced his this year’s Halloween plan: he’s going as Wikipedia (no costume required). Got a question? Just ask.
