DEBRA-LYNN HOOK
BRINGING UP MOMMY
MCCLATCHY NEWSPAPERS
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Looks like my family might have one more trick-or-treat in its repertoire.
He's 13, he's the youngest of my three, and he wants to be an Avatar.
I don't tell him that visions of the blue people from the 2009 movie have given me a two-Advil headache ever since he announced his choice. Or that I have a co-dependent relationship with Halloween costumes in general.
He needs a bow and arrow, he tells me. No, he needs a spear. He needs his skin to be blue, and kind of glittery in the face. He needs slanted eyes and pointy ears.
He tells me what he needs.
What I need is therapy to find out why I believe Halloween costumes are the measure of a mother's worth. Just as in past years when all three children simultaneously requested the most complicated costumes from my inadequate hands, I still don't know how to sew on a machine. I refuse, like my mother before me, to buy store-bought costumes and masks, or to send my children off to the dress-up box to do-it-yourself.
And yet, I want the perfect costume, the perfect fantasy - the perfect childhood moment - which leaves me every October, and then some, quietly agonizing, then apologizing, while they dream about the number of Reese's Cups they will collect in their pillow cases.
I tell myself this year I'm not going to reach for the stars or even the perfect shade of Avatar blue. I will, in chance moments, saunter around the costume and fabric shops, until I find adequate-enough supplies. I will, in perfect harmony with human limitations, accept my Singer-less self by joyfully, calmly, stitching whatever needs sewing by hand.
Mostly I will find happiness in my intimate attachment to this hallowed of all childhood-pretend days, which threatens to disappear from my repertoire, like sippy cups and tire swings and the blue stool in front of the bathroom sink.
"When did Emily and Chris quit trick-or-treating?" he wanted to know the other day about his older brother and sister, who are 22 and 18.
"I think they were 14 or 15," I said.
I don't really know the answer for sure. But if 14 or 15 will keep him trick-or-treating one more year, that's what I choose to say. That's what I choose to believe, much like I believe I will one day quit being a perfectionist mother.
One more trick-or-treat.
One more fantasy costume in a reality-show world.
One more opportunity for me to enjoy all of Halloween, including the lead-up, including the pure privilege of putting together a costume that means one of my children is just that, my child for whom I am responsible.
One more Oct. 31, patting the ears in place and the blue paint not too thick, then hurrying him out the door to join the Batmen, Dorothys and ghosts of the world.
One more pot of chili simmering on the stove, waiting for him and his friends to come flying back in the door, some of them flying for real on Harry Potter brooms.
One more watching in the living room, while he and his friends dump their candy in separate piles, and then begin trading Milky Ways and Three Musketeers, Mary Janes, candy corn and pennies.
One more year of me sidling into his room midday while he is at school, to steal my favorites from his pillow case, and hope he doesn't notice because, I justify, he has too much anyway.
One more opportunity to hear him, in the still-sweet voice of a boy still young enough to look past the imperfection of his mother: "Thank you, Mom, for doing such a nice job on my costume."
One more childhood moment.
Unless he decides next year that 14 isn't too old either.
And I will gladly be imperfect again.
BRINGING UP MOMMY
MCCLATCHY NEWSPAPERS
-------------
Looks like my family might have one more trick-or-treat in its repertoire.
He's 13, he's the youngest of my three, and he wants to be an Avatar.
I don't tell him that visions of the blue people from the 2009 movie have given me a two-Advil headache ever since he announced his choice. Or that I have a co-dependent relationship with Halloween costumes in general.
He needs a bow and arrow, he tells me. No, he needs a spear. He needs his skin to be blue, and kind of glittery in the face. He needs slanted eyes and pointy ears.
He tells me what he needs.
What I need is therapy to find out why I believe Halloween costumes are the measure of a mother's worth. Just as in past years when all three children simultaneously requested the most complicated costumes from my inadequate hands, I still don't know how to sew on a machine. I refuse, like my mother before me, to buy store-bought costumes and masks, or to send my children off to the dress-up box to do-it-yourself.
And yet, I want the perfect costume, the perfect fantasy - the perfect childhood moment - which leaves me every October, and then some, quietly agonizing, then apologizing, while they dream about the number of Reese's Cups they will collect in their pillow cases.
I tell myself this year I'm not going to reach for the stars or even the perfect shade of Avatar blue. I will, in chance moments, saunter around the costume and fabric shops, until I find adequate-enough supplies. I will, in perfect harmony with human limitations, accept my Singer-less self by joyfully, calmly, stitching whatever needs sewing by hand.
Mostly I will find happiness in my intimate attachment to this hallowed of all childhood-pretend days, which threatens to disappear from my repertoire, like sippy cups and tire swings and the blue stool in front of the bathroom sink.
"When did Emily and Chris quit trick-or-treating?" he wanted to know the other day about his older brother and sister, who are 22 and 18.
"I think they were 14 or 15," I said.
I don't really know the answer for sure. But if 14 or 15 will keep him trick-or-treating one more year, that's what I choose to say. That's what I choose to believe, much like I believe I will one day quit being a perfectionist mother.
One more trick-or-treat.
One more fantasy costume in a reality-show world.
One more opportunity for me to enjoy all of Halloween, including the lead-up, including the pure privilege of putting together a costume that means one of my children is just that, my child for whom I am responsible.
One more Oct. 31, patting the ears in place and the blue paint not too thick, then hurrying him out the door to join the Batmen, Dorothys and ghosts of the world.
One more pot of chili simmering on the stove, waiting for him and his friends to come flying back in the door, some of them flying for real on Harry Potter brooms.
One more watching in the living room, while he and his friends dump their candy in separate piles, and then begin trading Milky Ways and Three Musketeers, Mary Janes, candy corn and pennies.
One more year of me sidling into his room midday while he is at school, to steal my favorites from his pillow case, and hope he doesn't notice because, I justify, he has too much anyway.
One more opportunity to hear him, in the still-sweet voice of a boy still young enough to look past the imperfection of his mother: "Thank you, Mom, for doing such a nice job on my costume."
One more childhood moment.
Unless he decides next year that 14 isn't too old either.
And I will gladly be imperfect again.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful, Debra-Lynn! Makes me excited to one day be a mother... and to be ok with being perfectly imperfect. :)
ReplyDeleteMy mom sent me the link to your blog. Debra, I love this. I am in tears. You are an amazing writer! You put your heart around what it is to be a mother and then you type it out. Beautiful. :)
ReplyDeleteAllie K, I have not responded to your kind comment because I am just now seeing it. And yours, too, Mia. I am finding my way with blogging and wishuponwish that I will find more time to be with it. Thank you for your comments, Mia. What finer connecting, than helping a friend look forward to motherhood. Allie, thank you for your profound image: Putting one's heart around motherhood and then typing it out. Wow. Humbling and encouraging at the same time. Thank you so very much, and I hope you see this comment back to you. Love is in the air.
ReplyDelete