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Halloween tends to bring out strong emotions in the parents
of young children: we either immerse ourselves in the spirit of the season,
creating elaborate costumes for our children and ourselves, decorating our
homes and yards within inches of their lives, carving 27 perfectly-sized jack o’lanterns
for the porch, and eagerly awaiting bringing in fancy themed snacks for class
parties; or we become the Halloween equivalent of the Grinch, buying whatever
costume is still in the store at the last second, tossing an uncarved pumpkin
on the steps, and turning off the porch light at the earliest possible moment.
For a parent, Halloween is just about the worst competitive
peer pressure that there is. Let’s admit it: we judge each other on our kids’
costumes. Can we make the perfect costume, exactly what the child has been
begging for for weeks, have every detail perfect, including hair and makeup and
shoes? Is OUR Thor (or Ariel, or Barbie, or Iron Man, or whatever character is
popular this year) as authentic and as awesome as the neighbor kid’s Thor (or
Ariel or Barbie or Iron Man)? Or do we not love our child enough to handmake
armor out of 38,743 individual soda can pull-tabs and to design a magnetized
hammer that actually sticks to the ground when anyone but our child tries to
pick it up? I think a lot of us simply admit defeat and don’t even try.
And I count myself among that number. I come from a long
line of seamstresses, and I am a seamstress myself. I had always had visions of
sewing magnificent costumes for my kids, as my mother always had for me. I
imagined myself sitting with each of them, poring over pattern books and picking
out fabrics, then seeing their growing excitement as they tried on their
costume at each stage, as it slowly grew into being under my talented fingers.
But what really happened is that they saw the rack of
ready-made costumes at Costco in August and did that little jumping, squealing
happy dance that no parent with a heart can resist, and I threw down my 25
bucks and called it a day.
But the truth is, KIDS DON’T CARE. Well, some kids might
care. But the vast majority of kids would be pretty happy with a costume made
from construction paper and tape.
What the parent sees:
What the kid sees:
Remember, these are kids to whom a cardboard box becomes a
castle, a pirate ship, a rocket, and a smuggler’s cave. We see what’s there;
they see what’s in their imagination. And the less we give them to work with,
the cooler their imagination can make it. An elaborate costume leaves no room
for creativity; a “suggested” costume allows for coming up with cool effects
and weapons and abilities.
So the mom I admire, and the mom I strive to be, is the one
who doesn’t worry about what other people will think about her kids’ costumes,
but the one who gives her child a costume that will allow them to imagine, to
pretend, to dream, to strive, to think.
But I still hope that someday one of them wants a great
costume that I can sew after we design it together.
