About
a month ago, I decided I’d make Calvin’s Halloween costume for the first
time. He’s crazy about fish these
days, so I figured it’d be safe to make a little goldfish costume he couldn’t
possibly reject. And, thankfully,
he loved it. As the day
approached, we practiced wearing the costume to a few events we had planned
with friends and family. We talked
about the concept of “trick-or-treating” but understood that it probably
wouldn’t completely sink in until we were actually engaged in the act of doing
so.
On
Halloween, our community organizes something called a Munchkin Masquerade where
all the restaurants and shops downtown on Pearl Street hand out candy to young
trick-or-treaters. This was our
first year going, and I had no idea what to expect, so I told Angus to stay at
work, that I’d take Calvin down myself.
Little did I know that this event is HUGE and there are massive crowds,
families dressed up in coordinating costumes, fire trucks and buses parked for
kids to climb on, and gooey, sugary candy being handed out in droves. Needless to say, I was a tad
overwhelmed, and I think at a few points, namely the ones where adults in weird
costumes got too close, Calvin was too.
And despite being surrounded by ghosts, monsters, and aliens on all
sides, I felt strangely lonely as we meandered down the street. There’s something about being in a
crowd of people that calls to attention what or who is missing. Maybe that’s a pessimist’s way of
looking at the world, and I’ll admit, there are moments that I tend to fall a
bit more on the glass-is-half-empty end of viewing things. But, as I watched the commotion ensue
around me and Calvin, I couldn’t help but miss the one who took me
trick-or-treating for the first time, the one who dressed up as a scary pirate
and sat on our front step, the one who made events like Halloween fun, and the
one who would have eaten up every moment of yesterday – the proud grandpa of my little
fish.
It wasn’t just my
dad that I missed. It was that
feeling of being a child and seeing my parent more excited about something than
I was. The comfort of ritual and
tradition is what I found myself longing for, and part of me felt crappy for
downplaying this event, for not dressing up like the other parents, for telling
Angus to just skip it. But there
was a full night ahead, so I brushed it off, gave Calvin a lolli-pop and took
off for home.
When
we got home after our downtown adventure, and it was nearing the time for
trick-or-treating in our neighborhood, I had pizza to assemble, a house to
pick-up, and friends to socialize with.
And a sweet, sweet husband, who just came off a stressful day, to hug
and kiss. Something tells me that
as I did hug and kiss him, he sensed in me what I couldn’t put to words at the
time. He said with a smile, “You
go trick-or-treating with him. I’ll stay here and man the door and the
pizzas.” And what he was really
saying was, “Even though I’d really like to go trick-or-treating with our son
since I worked all day, you go because I know you need it right now. Go out there and have fun with Calvin.”
And selfishly I
said, “OK…if you’re sure…” and went.
It was magical. That is neither an exaggeration nor a
sarcastic remark. It really was
magical. I watched my son and his
friend, both freshly 2-years-old, learn house-by-house what this trick-or-treat
tradition is all about. I watched
them ding doorbells, say, “Happy Hall-ween” and “Rick or Reat” and “Thank you.”
I watched them boldly attempt to grab multiple pieces of candy versus one piece
at the later houses and shriek with delight as they ran down the dark
street. I saw our friends’
daughter take two candies when a woman told her to take one for her mommy,
which makes perfect sense as she has two mommies. My heart wanted to reach around that small moment and
protect and shout out its beauty.
I saw my son bite into a Tootsie Roll with the paper still on and drool
the sticky goodness of the sugar he has so rarely tasted. I saw neighbors and kids dressed up and
heard the sounds of laughter and sugar-highs bouncing up and down the streets.
And
in this magic, I saw my dad. I
realized that this is the start of where I get to be like him in all the ways
that he shined brightest: exuding this excitement for childhood traditions that
cannot be feigned but instead comes naturally. This is where my children expect me to live in the moment
with them and love that I actually do…or at least give it my best. And aren’t the rewards of doing so the
absolute greatest? When I agree to
play trains with my son, he does the Arsenio Hall fist pump. When I play peek-a-boo with him, his
smile is enormous when he uncovers his face. When I eat breakfast next to him, he feeds me pieces of his
precious granola. When I read him
books at bedtime, he asks for “just one more” but lets Mommy pick.
So,
this afternoon after his nap, when my son asked, “Rick or Reat?”, pointed to
his fish costume, and carried around his empty candy basket, I knew he too felt
the magic of last night. He felt
the magic of the moment. He felt
the magic of my dad. Of me. Of our family creating ritual and being
together. And that is worth
everything to me.
