Halloween Redux

Halloween nowadays…Uh oh. I just said “nowadays.” Damn kids. Get off my lawn! Turn that music down! Sit up straight! Okay… I think it’s out of my system now.

Anyways, Halloween nowadays is fun, sure, but it’s nothing like when we were young. Halloween during the 1970′s was a whole other ballgame. Today parents and children work in tandem to think up creative costumes and often spend hours at department stores and fabric shops to ensure successful costumes.

We also make sure our kids eat a balanced meal, rich in protein and complex carbohydrates with the perfect ratio of vitamins and minerals before trick-or-treating so that any sugar consumption after dinner is absorbed and metabolized less harmfully.

Trick-or-treaters use flashlights and reflective arm bands and are accompanied door-to-door by watchful parents in large groups. Merriment is structured and there are always “pleases” and “thank-yous” even from the most frightful witch or goblin (wearing a latex-free masks with safety breathing holes, of course.)

Candy is checked, and re-checked. And checked again. Do we know where it came from? Is it fresh? Is it more than 36% sugar and food colouring? Can it be frozen for the doling out of joy in thimblefuls through the winter?

BRUSH YOUR TEETH. And use the fluoride-free cavity protection rinse the dentist recommended!

Pumpkins lining tidy pathways of tidy two-storey subdivision homes are well-lit and rival museum works of art. They are not jack-o-lanterns; they are “Post-Modern Gourd Carvings.” They are beautiful and fragile and no one touch it.

This is in stark opposition to Halloween of my youth (and yours too, dear reader, if you are between 25-100.)  Our parents often scrambled a costume at 4pm on Halloween evening, using couch cushions and old curtains. Mom’s red lipstick and some clip on earrings transformed 6-year-olds into “pregnant housewife circa 1974″ in the time it took to mix another Tom Collins.

Kids had little to no say in what costume they would wear. If it was bought, it was bought on sale by your mother when she was at the grocery store, thrown into a cart with Cheeez-Whiz and Wagon Wheels. More likely  it was made, and no matter what, you smiled for the damn picture.

Pumpkins came in three standard carving patterns: scary face, funny face, or uncarved. They were lit by stub wax candles, lit ourselves with wooden matches or a leaky Zippo.

Dinner was unnecessary – you’d be eating all night anyway, so why waste money on a formal supper when the bank wants 18.5% for the damn mortgage and the union might strike?

“Let me fill my pocket flask and we’ll go, fathers said. They stood in groups, sipping and chatting at the bottoms of driveways while we ran – ran - no pleases, no thank-you, Yes, Mrs. Patterson, I will tell my mother you like my costume.

We ran and we screamed and we laughed and we showed no awareness of orderly merriment.

Then we were home and tired, make-up washed from our face.

Smelling of Noxema and Pond’s Cold Cream,  our scrubbed faces shone as we sorted and traded and sorted and traded again.

We ate ourselves just this side of sick. We hadn’t had dinner, you know.

It was Halloween.

It was Halloween.

The apple that fell far from the tree, and was also possibly filled with poison

When my daughter was born I was determined to nurse her. I knew it was a good choice nutritionally, it was free, portable, eco-friendly, yadda yadda…

It was hard going in the beginning, but things soon smoothed themselves out and it was totally worth it. And besides, isn’t that what most relationships are about? Making sacrifices and sharing of ourselves?  Any stumbles or difficulties along the way were totally worth it, because she was my child and I would do anything for her.

One day she would remember all this.

Today is not going to be that day.

Finger Poised on the Panic Button

I hate it when my kids are really sick.

I hate the feeling of powerlessness, the anxiety, the lost sleep, the what-ifs, the second guessing. During the flu season it’s tempting to just stock the larder, gather bushels of root vegetables and simply close your family indoors from October to April. If you know me, you understand that this is SO NOT AN EXAGGERATION. I am a worry wart, dipped in hypochondria, deep-fried in panic and served with a side of hysteria. I am a party, no?

But my kids are social creatures, and so isolation would work for exactly 2.4 hours. I wouldn’t even have a chance to slice the first potato for soup. This past few weeks, flu season has hit my area – hard. Be it Type A, Type B, H1N1, Hong Kong Chicken, whatever, among the first in its line of sight was my 10-year-old.

Poor Dog Lover has been home for a week. It seems like the worst of it has passed for her, but despite getting 12-14 hours of sleep a night, she remains just exhausted and looks so sad. She is missing her first dance this Friday and I am afraid I am going to have to hide the calendar, unplug the cable TV and attempt to convince her that she has NOT missed Halloween, even though she will likely sleep through it. We’ll simply have to do it another day. The neighbours won’t be surprised to see my kids in costume on a regular Wednesday night, but the asking for candy may seem a little weird. I guess I could go myself and tell homeowners I am collecting candy for “my sick child.” But, that didn’t work the last 3 times I tried it, so I am holding out little hope this year.

Dingly Butter Nuts seems fine. He moves too quickly for anything microscopic to take hold. Plus he has that protective peanut butter and jam coating.

There is a wreath of garlic hanging from my front door, and in typical protectionist fashion, I have consumed enough of it to frighten any vampires out of the tri-county area. I’ve incorporated every old wives tale for fighting flu that I’m aware of. And there are plenty suggestions floating around out there right now. I just about had her ready to submit to a mustard chest plaster by promising her a dog for Christmas, but she saw my fingers crossed behind my back in the window reflection. If I get an email today saying that painting all the rooms in your house bright orange zigzag stripes will actually scare flu viruses away, I am heading for Home Depot for drop cloths and masking tape.

All of our windows are fogged with vaporizer steam, and our house smells like an Italian kitchen with all of the fresh garlic and Oil of Oregano I am doling out. I bought the 6 pack Jumbo size Kleenex boxes, made a big batch of homemade chicken soup, and a military size drum of antiseptic wipes. We have Astragalus, Elderberry, Lavender, Eucalyptus, Oscillococcinum, and Toe of Newt at the ready. We are armed for battle.

But she seems on the mend, and is mostly tired and bored now. I have played countless games of sick bed Scrabble, participated in pre-teen magazine quizzes, and watched so much Teletoon that I am now dreaming in animation. We were without internet access for a few days, and when I told her that when I was sick as a child, all I got was 3 channels on a black and white television, she said, “But that was back in the medieval times!”

I think she’ll be getting that mustard chest plaster after all.

My Main Man

Like most of his gender, my five year old son is a simple creature.

He says what he means, does what he wants, and really, all he wants is for me to make him a salami and tomato sandwich and then leave him alone. He is smart, inventive and curious. I have seen him display unlimited patience when building a Bakugan Lego Thunderdome from plastic berry baskets and packing tape, yet he can blow up like an egg in the microwave if both of his legs go through one hole of his underwear.

He will likely end up being some sort of explosives engineer. Or a felon. Jury’s still out.

He appreciates and responds well to a streamlined schedule: Eat, sleep, play, destroy, aggravate, enchant, repeat.

He knows what he likes, knows what he doesn’t and couldn’t care less if your view differs. He can be difficult, bewitching, charming, offer stinging criticism, appear emotionally detached and be overtly affectionate. At the same time. I have no idea where he gets it from.

"I did NOT eat the powdered donuts for dinner..."

 He loves to wear costumes, do wheelies on his two wheel bike and steal my kitchen utensils. Today on his daily bike ride he wore his glow in the dark skeleton costume, a flame-stickered bike helmet, and carried both a lime reamer and a garlic press in his pocket. The garlic press had been missing for days, and was later returned to the drawer without comment, but smelled oddly of garden soil and worm intestine.

He tells me he loves me and that I am his “best friend” countless times every day, and loves it when I read to him from my history textbook. That boy knows more about the Russian Revolution, The Grand Exchange, or the King’s Great Matter than many of my classmates. Especially that weird guy who wears his pajamas and a floor length black oilcloth duster to class.

When it comes to his wardrobe, I’ve stopped offering explanations as to his appearance. Luckily, his teachers are kind and understanding, and find it “charming” that he wants to wear his John Deere T-shirt, camouflage cargo pants and assorted bits of various costumes from Halloween’s past 5 days a week. My daughter needs a different pair of jeans for every day of the month. My son needs two pairs of pants, total. He’d be happy with one, but by bribing him with orange Tic Tacs I was able to get him to agree to an extra pair for when the first are crusted with pancake syrup, play dough and hamster poop.

I was hoping that Santa would deliver some new clothes for him at Christmas, but so far his only request is “a long, really sharp stick with some kind of propeller thingy on the end to chop stuff up.”

I am asking Santa for a military grade triage first aid kid and a cask of tequila.

They say that there is a special place in heaven for mothers of sons.

The vast majority of days, I love earning  my wings.

The current fave, especially for family meals out. And appointments.