At this moment in time, I have a baby and a two-and-a-half-year old. From last year’s experience I knew that Halloween would be a challenge. However, I carefully planned for this year and cut corners so that I would steer clear of last year’s mess. Apparently, no amount of planning can tackle a disaster in the making.

Last year I chose to use a Martha Stewart pattern to make my child a chicken costume. The Martha Stewart pattern had an old fashion “made-at-home-with-scraps-and-my-intense-imagination” look. The Martha Stewart myth is the theme of my life. I am drawn to quality, simplicity and moderation. What that statement means, is that I like to find a bargain…something that costs alot but was marked down. Hence, quality for cheap, or as I say above, “moderation.” I don’t want to seem extravagant. I always wish to be thought of as moderate. Why? I don’t know.

In fact, the finding of a bargain has turned into a “look” for me. My house has no organized look—it just follows the “look” of whatever bargain I find. My clothes are this way too. I never buy something just because I want it. I buy it because it is on sale. So, whatever I look like is reflective of whatever was on sale. The clothes don’t have to be cheap, just on sale. Not even a big sale—just on sale.

However, my bargains never turn out to be bargains. For instance, I bought a three-legged stool for $15 at a garage sale. After my daughter almost knocked her teeth out several times when the stool turned over, I hired a carpenter to take off those legs and make four new legs to stabilize the stool. That cost $50. Then, I asked an interior decorator to incorporate the stool into my daughter’s room. That probably cost at least $50 too…she charges by the hour and finding fabric for the stool was probably factored in as an hour’s worth of work. Then, there was the upholsterer who charged $75 to put the carefully selected fabric onto the stool. My $15 garage sale stool cost almost $200. The important part of this explanation is that I did not set out to find a stool for my daughter’s room, nor does my daughter need or use this stool, nor does the stool even look that good in her room, but because I found a bargain it became part of my house.

Martha Stewart projects fit my style perfectly because they have an appearance of moderation and ease, but in reality they are expensive and difficult -- just like me! Martha Stewart made last year's chicken costume seem so easy. Liar. It was the hardest project ever! The directions said something like, “Get your one-year old child to cooperate as you put one leotard on her body and then put another leotard on top of that leotard. Push stuffing between the two leotards. Sew the neck and legs of the leotards together WHILE THE CHILD IS WEARING THE TWO LEOTARDS.” Have you ever tried to get a one-year old to stand still while you use a pointed needle to sew around their neck?

That’s not the worse of it. You were then supposed to sew five feather boa’s around the leotard. Again, WHILE THE CHILD IS WEARING THE LEOTARDS. It would take an hour to do that! Have you ever seen a one-year old stand still and hold their arms out for an hour? I couldn’t even get one leotard on my child. But, I was not going to be deterred. I searched the neighborhood and borrowed a huge stuffed bear, and he was my model. Sewing the chicken-comb hat and hot-glue-gunning rubber gloves on a pair of baby shoes proved easy. The point of this story is that I wanted a “homemade-with-love” look that conveyed the thrifty way I lead my life.

However, that costume turned out to cost alot…let’s see: baby hat $10, felt $1, special order orange tights $18, two leotards $48, shoes (ruined by glue and stuck rubber) $35, rubber gloves $3, five feather boa’s $25, plus tax = $151.80. This price does not include the many hours this took, the strain on my marriage and the screaming child who didn’t want to wear the costume.

So, this year I accepted my mother-in-law’s offer to give my children each a store-bought costume. I felt a little less than a perfect mother, but I just wanted peace. The costumes arrived in August. My daughter would be Madeline and my baby boy would be Humpty Dumpty. The costumes were really cute, and so easy to put on! I was delighted. Our family had plans to go to a Halloween party the Tuesday before Halloween. My sister and brother-in-law and their two children, my mother-in-law and my family would head to the party at 5:30 pm.

I carefully planned the afternoon leading up to the big party. After my daughter’s nap we had a healthy snack to offset the impending sweets. Then, the children lay on the floor sucking their thumbs and quietly listening to the Madeline soundtrack. The baby had a nice long nap while my daughter and I bathed in fresh basil bath salts that promised to invigorate our skin and give our bodies a “burst of crisp, earthy-green exuberance of good health.” I got out of the bath and dressed in my new tummy-control panty-things that would allow me to fit into some pants that I bought before I had the baby. “What you wearing?” asks my daughter. “Just some special panties for mommies.” Note to self: Close bathroom door tightly.

My previous experiences should have taught me to close the door—the time when I getting out of the bathtub and my daughter poked her finger at my naked butt and said admiringly, "I like your Jello bottom."  Of course there was also the experience where my daughter comes into the bathroom shortly after I had the baby and sees me changing a sanitary napkin. As we go into her classroom later that day, she tells her teacher that her mommy has a big cut on her “po-po” and is wearing a giant band-aid in her panties. That made me feel good.

My calming activities and healthy snacks went to hell in a matter of minutes. I bring out the Madeline costume and the craziness begins. There is crying and hysteria over the hair (a wig) in the hat. “It’s too long” my child whines. Then, absolute meltdown over the shoes, “These aren’t like Madeline’s!” Whine, whine, scream, scream. Then, the hungry baby wakes up. Simultaneous crying. No time to feed him…must slip him into Humpty Dumpty costume—that goes over well! After a frenzied race out of the house, the three of us are in the car. Did I mention that my husband was out of town? Yeah. The crying is louder in the small space of a car with the windows up; so, I roll down the windows and turn up the music. Works for me.

We get to the venue and costumed kids are everywhere. It’s a madhouse. My daughter, who stopped crying, begins crying again about the horribleness of wearing the hat. “Nobody will know you are Madeline if you don’t wear the hat,” I urge. She pushes back at me with some retort that I forget, but I remember it made me mad. I tell her that she will need to stay in the parking lot if she is going to cry, but the baby and I are going into the party. That comment was supposed to make her shape-up and desire to come in, but instead she takes me at my word and sits down on the curb. Crying. Crying.

I cajole her to come in but find myself snapping at her as soon as we get in the door, “My patience is about this long,” I say pinching my fingers together. “Dry it up or we’re heading home.” Some nice looking older woman overhears me and looks at me without ONE BIT of sympathy. I guess she was waiting for her even-tempered grandchildren to arrive. Hope her granddaughter decided not to wear the handmade Snow White costume she sent but instead opted to be a hobo!

We’re in the zoo of a dining room and children are running everywhere. At least my daughter has assumed her Dr. Jeckle/Mr. Hyde personality and is sitting nicely at the table discussing which vegetables she will eat. Whatever! The waiter asks for our drink order. “A tumbler of gin and tonic, please,” I say with a fixed smile and a cocked head. I’m sweating.

I’ve got to feed my hungry baby. I take out the bowl I brought from home filled with dry cereal and formula. Finally the waiter comes back I give him my request for warm water. Hours later he arrives with the water, and I mix the cereal and formula (no breast milk at this feeding-bad mother) and dig in my bag for the jar of food that I plan to stir in. No luck. The jar is lost. Damn. The baby doesn’t like plain cereal. I try to feed him as he sits on my lap (no more high chairs…all taken). He won’t eat.

An older lady at the next table chooses this very moment to give me some advice, “That baby is never going to sleep through the night just eating pabulum.” Fire…no, ice runs through my veins.  The world is still.

My sister-in-law turns her head away as if to act like she didn’t hear the comment. My brother-in-law gasps. He’s felt the level of my annoyance and is scared for my reaction. I am really scared for my reaction, but I suck in a quick breath and exhale in a pointedly slow way and quip in an extremely clipped way, “I certainly know that. I feed him plenty but I don’t happen to have any food with me at the moment.”

It’s cold and still at our table. Silence. Not my style to back off. Most things that make other people mad, don’t make me mad, but once the button is pushed, I have a hard time stopping. I’m not the boxer who moves to his corner after a knock-out. I am the boxer who keeps hitting after the bell has rung and the guy on the ground is gushing blood. HOWEVER, I get a hold of myself and think about the many more years I will spend in the Austin community and how uncomfortable making-up can be.

I take off Humpty Dumpty’s costume. He’s had enough humiliation for one night. I open all the candy on the table for my daughter. “Eat all you want,” I tell her. Then, I put on the Madeline hat and wig and finish my drink. What is pabulum anyway?

Comments

[Csara]

Ugh, that does sound like a hellish night! and yeah, I haven't a clue what pabulum is?!?! lol

[Chanel]

I really enjoyed your story. I have three daughters and have endured MANY a meltdown over the past 17 years. My 14 year old, who has here-to-for agreed with every article of clothing I've ever suggested now rolls her eyes at everything I suggest - even if it looks exactly like something she wears every day. I have to be careful shopping with her as she'll suddenly decide to hate anything she thinks my eye has happened across. It makes me want to do things that would result in all of my children being removed from my home and god forbid that some wiser than thou older woman deign to interfere with their advice in one of those moments. Though I'm 35 and have children ranging from 17 to 3, I look like I'm one of the sisters, so many people offer me there advice.

One part of your story that had me really laughing was the bathroom section. I'm pretty sur I haven't been in mine alone in 17 years. Once one of my children told me that I wasn't fat - she could still see where the lines on my tummy used to be...I used to have a washboard stomach that I really took for granted until my metabolism slowed down. Her effort to boost my ego went unappreciated, needless to say.