Tink or Treat

On Monday night, Mary had lined up three unwrapped, half eaten lollipops on a plate, and she was taking a dip into her trick or treat bucket for yet another one. 'Mary you're going to get sick,' I told her. Bobby asked me for more chocolate, MORE chocolate. I said fine, one more. And that's it. You are going to get sick! When the candy pleas recommenced five minutes later, I cut them off. You are all going to throw up, no more candy tonight. Peter, hide the buckets.

The kicker ... who ended up getting sick? Me.

It wasn't from lollipops, or running from house to house while eating my tenth piece of candy, it was from some terrible virus that kept me in bed for about 36 hours.

So with work stressing me out, and ongoing illness recovery, I decided the pictures would have to carry the weight of my Halloween entry.

The events leading up to Halloween; Mary's Dance class performing Fright Night, her school's Halloween parade, our community's Halloween Bash, arts and crafts, pumpkin carving, and the frightening live surprise I found in our faux spider webs on Monday afternoon.

Then Halloween night; Mary bouncing from house to house, confidently ringing door bells with a polite trick or treat, helping her brother step up to the plate to get his fair share of loot. Daddy's costume, my silver tray lined with full sized candy bars, the teen boys who had been mapping their ideal route for weeks, confirming to their friends, 'this is the house!' The sheer number of trick or treaters parading down our street this year because of the beautiful weather. All awesome.

Halloween like all holidays with the kids didn't disappoint, and looking back on the pictures definitely makes sick days more bearable.

Lo.

HalloWHY?

In sixth grade, my last English assignment of the year was to write an autobiography. We had just read one (totally don't remember which because I didn't actually read it), but inspired nonetheless I was asked to put personal memories and milestones to paper. 

Back then, my writing was as dramatic as my presence on stage. While my classmates began their autobiographies with sentences like, 'I live on number 17 Cherry Tree Lane,' 'I'm the eldest of five.' or simply, 'life is good.;I went deep with my entrance. I can still remember every word of that first paragraph. 

'Words can mean a lot. Especially to me. Sometimes they're big words that have never been heard by anyone before. And sometimes they're small words. Like why. A word that carries so much meaning and so many questions. Why am I here?' 

Centered around the question of why, I remember I couldn't stop writing. I turned in the longest autobiography in the class. I titled it, 'Memories of One's Life.' (I was the One.) My teacher loved it. She asked me to read it at a gathering of old folks in Barnes and Nobles several weeks later. They seemed disinterested. I got an A in the class. Again, never the read the book(s.) 

***

Mary learned a new word recently. Why. And while I love the question and her tireless curiosity, I've grown tired of answering it. At work, there's a rule of four or five whys. I forget how many. But after a certain threshold, you're supposed to get to the greater truth. Ah ... That's what we're actually solving for. The questioner loves the glory of pinpointing the nugget you didn't know. The respondent hopes they stop at three.  

While sweeping up the glitter, or rather Pixie Dust, that has provided an unnatural effervescence around our house the past couple of days, I thought about all the questions starting with why Mary asked this weekend. 

Why are the leaves falling? 

Why can't I throw the leaves? 

Why can't I throw the leaves at Bobby? 

Why can't I bring the leaves home? 

Why do I have to wear my coat? 

Because it's really cold! 

Why are we going to get pumpkins? 

Why can't I get three, four, FIVE pumpkins? (holding up all of her little fingers.) 

Why can't I push the cart? 

Why can't I bring the pumpkins to Church? 

Why do I have to wear my coat? 

Because we don't live in California. 

Why are those kids coming to our house? 

Why are they dressed up like that? 

Why do you have to get a picture?

Why do I have to be nice to Bobby?  

Why do I have to wear my coat to go outside? 

Because everyone else is! 

Why is that house so spooky? 

Why is that skeleton mad? 

Why is that little boy dressed like a Mummy?  

Why can't I eat all my candy? 

Why can't I eat another chocolate? 

Why do I have to wear my coat? 

Because I said so. THE END.

As much as I love the question and the truth seeking little girl I'm raising, answering it perpetually is difficult. And I've got to say, I found myself stumped quite a few times this weekend. 

Why does it have to get dark now? 

Because it's that time of year.   

Why is that Daddy going away? 

Because he has to. 

Why is that Mommy sad? 

Because honey. 

Are those kids going to be okay? 

Yeah ... they are. 

When 'I said so' runs its course, the only answer left, other than I don't know, is because. And as a Mom who's supposed to have the answer, because has to suffice. Just because, and that's all I know. Life is complicated and confusing and short. Too short. So maybe three whys is enough. And the rest is better left to a because ... He says so.  

Lo. 

Trick or Treat

It's Friday, I'm exhausted, and I'm out of words. So I'll use Mary's. 

Pumpkin. 

Candy. 

Kelton. 

Cute. 

Gnome. 

Shoes. 

Hat. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

Walk. 

House. 

Girl. 

Trick or trrrrrreat. 

Mommy! 

House. 

Door. 

Trick or trrrrrreat. 

Candy. 

Elf. 

Friend. 

Cold. 

Snow. 

All done. 

And so am I, Mary.  

Night night. 

Happy Halloween. 

Love you my little Gnome. 

Lo. 

Happy Ghosts

In my lifetime, I have seen very few horror movies. And there's a reason for that. I'm an easy scare and prefer sweet dreams over scary ones. Growing up, the Gremlins, Seymour the man-eating plant from Little Shop of Horrors, the head Witch in the film adaptation of Roald Dahl's the Witches, and the two hoodlums that engaged our Ford Taurus in a car chase around Squirrel Hill gave me my fill of fear. These were the images of my nightmares; the reason I didn't want to go into the basement alone; why the tropical plant room at Phipps Conservatory could be bypassed; and the rationale behind yelling at Peter for passive aggressive driving to this day.

At night, I would run into my parents room if I had a dream haunted by a Gremlin or Witch, hoping to be welcomed by my Mom's healing embrace. But before she could even extend an invitation for me to climb up next to her, my Dad was leading me back to my room, back to my bed. He would nestle me under the covers, pat my back, and sooth me into a sweeter slumber.

***

I often wonder what Mary dreams about at this young age. I have to imagine her stuffed bunnies and bears make appearances. There's likely lots of milk and a couple tea cookies from Kirschbaums. Chalk and crayons, red and yellow leaves, Dora and Diego, buses, trucks, trains, and bikes. Oma and her potato pancakes.
   

Mommy's icing. And the layers of pumpkin cake inside.  



Jooooooe.


Walking and running with Nanny and Opa in the forest, crossing bridges, and quacking like the duckies.

I like to think she dreams of her family and friends and all the fun that life has already presented to her.

However, for the past three weeks, I've been alerted by a scream in the middle of the night to something else entering my little girl's dreams.

'Ghosts.'
'Ghosts.'
'Ghosts'

You might think or so I thought, she's one and a half, how does she know what ghosts are? And how does she understand that they are scary?

Oh.

That's right. Throughout the whole month of October, my cushy neighborhood is staged like a horror movie. Million dollar homes have scenes straight out of hell displayed in their front yards. And I'm supposed to explain to my 19-month old that hey, that's not scary; those are 'happy ghosts' and 'nice witches' and they love you.

Every year, the suburban execution of Halloween seems to get more petrifying. The collection of skeletons in everyone's California Closets expands and by October 1, there is a mad dash to spew as much blood and gore on professionally pruned lawns as possible. I don't get it. And quite frankly, I'm getting mad about it.

Ironically, it was Opa, or the Notre Dame Leprechaun that Mary calls, 'Opa' that saved the day the past two nights. She demanded that he come to bed with her, and just like that, he used his Irish heritage to fight off the ghouls trying to get into Mary's crib.

To set expectations for the rest of the babies and toddlers on the block. You will never find scares at the White House. Just treats. And they will always be the king size ones. 

Lo. 

Happy Hershey Halloween

Mr. and Mrs. plus our little 1 ...

Are wishing the neighborhood (and you) a very happy HerSHEy Halloween!

With the help of Snickers, Kit Kat, and Reese's too.

(Did you get it?)

One more hint: We're going to need more closet space - there are going to be a lot more shoes in our future.

Lo.