Halloween has always been the scariest holiday of the year,
especially at my house. I live in sheer terror, from the first week
of October to the last, of how to decorate our home, of what candy
will make me a hit in the neighborhood, and what candy will bring a
storm of eggs and toilet paper the next morning. And, of course,
there’s always the dreaded notion of what the kids are going to
wear at Halloween.
Halloween has always been the scariest holiday of the year, especially at my house. I live in sheer terror, from the first week of October to the last, of how to decorate our home, of what candy will make me a hit in the neighborhood, and what candy will bring a storm of eggs and toilet paper the next morning. And, of course, there’s always the dreaded notion of what the kids are going to wear at Halloween.
My daughter’s gotten to the point where I’m more worried about what she’s wearing the rest of the year, let alone Halloween, but it wasn’t always that way, and I admit, I’m starting to grow fond for times when I thought I was going insane, but actually, everything was pretty darn perfect.
The first time my daughter asked me to make a costume for her, she was 5. I tell you, ghosts, ghouls and goblins don’t strike fear into my heart as much as the electric torture device known as “The Sewing Machine.” At the time, the last time I had seen mine, it was holding up the back end of my husband’s car while he changed the tire. Lately, it’s been doubling as a sculpture in the garden, or the part of the backyard where I plan to put a garden, but never mind, you get the idea.
“I want you to make me into Cinderella at the ball,” my daughter announced.
“How about a ghost,” I pleaded. “Or something else with one seam?”
“Cinderella,” she insisted, “with lace, puffy sleeves and lots of jewels!”
I silently cursed the other mothers on the block who diligently sewed their children’s costumes each year. They could make 10 Cinderellas and a fairy godmother in the time it took me to tie my shoe. Throughout October, the street is filled with the hum of sewing machines coming from every direction but mine.
“Why go to all of the trouble,” my husband asked, “when you can buy her a nice costume at the mall?”
“All the other mothers in the neighborhood make them,” I said. “It’s like having a homemade cake at your birthday party instead of a grocery store special.”
“Remember last year?” he asked, “You used the stapler and her halo kept poking the back of her head and her angel wings blew off into the gutter.”
“She looked very cute while it lasted,” I said, “and I enjoyed making the costume. But the last time I turned the sewing machine on, it trapped my sleeves under the bobbin and stitched a seam up my right arm before I could pull the cord out of the wall with my foot.”
I drummed my fingers on the counter and bit my lower lip. Then I realized the angel gown was still hanging in my daughter’s closet.
The next day I found it and dyed the white cloth pink and closed the wing holes with masking tape. I added lace to the front with a glue gun and stuffed the shoulders with tissue, then expanded last year’s halo into a tiara and sprinkled a stick from the backyard with glitter for a magic wand. I carefully hung my creation back in my daughter’s closet and hoped everything would stick together until next week.
On Halloween Eve it took 20 minutes to seal my daughter into her costume.
“I’m beautiful!” She twirled in front of the hall mirror.
“Just like Cinderella?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “just like you.” She kissed me on the cheek.
This year, my daughter has some school Halloween function she’s attending, my son’s going off trick-or-treating with some of his friends, and I’m going to be at the door, passing out candy while hoping to blockade our hyperactive, spastic dog, Murphy, from running outside and knocking over preschoolers and licking them long enough that their parents decide to bill me for the therapy they’re going to need.
My kids and I did a test run the other day, just to see how he’d do, and Murphy didn’t run out the door, but he did eat an entire bowl of candy. So I’m a bit frazzled, and as always, fearful of how this holiday is going to go. And the funny thing is, I’ll probably look back on this Halloween just as fondly as I’m looking back at past ones.
Debbie Farmer is a humorist and a mother holding down the fort in California, and the author of “Don’t Put Lipstick on the Cat.” You can reach her at
fa********@oa***************.com
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