Me, age 40
Caroline, age 10
I am not my best on
Halloween.
I know that many people
love it, but I have a hard time getting keyed up for a holiday that requires me
to be crafty and give my kids a free
pass to eat all the sugar they want.
Generally speaking, I try
to put on a pleasant smile and go with it. But this year, I’ve done something that I suspect has taken the luster off Halloween – for one of my children, at least.
I’m staying at home to
hand out candy while my fanatical husband (who has mapped out the neighborhood
with what he calls an optimal candy-acquisition strategy) is taking the
kids trick-or-treating. My last words to him, as they all bolt out the front
door, are, “Please, please try not to
stay out too late!” They are already halfway up the street and completely ignoring
me when I add, “The longer you’re out, the crabbier the kids will be tomorrow and the more candy we’ll have. And we
don’t need any more candy!”
Right.
Two hours later, they've not
yet returned. Trick-or-treaters have stopped ringing our doorbell, which
makes me wonder what my husband and children are doing. My imaginary Halloween
cheer has worn off and I’m getting tired. I send him a text:
Is anyone out there? Pretty quiet here.
How are kids holding up?
My husband responds:
We’re still doing
well.
On our way to one last street
I text back:
Great. Please come home soon or
your kids will be assholes in the morning.
And then:
I saw what you
just typed! This is Caroline,
and you called us
assholes!
“Oh, shit,” I say. I may
have a mouth like a sailor behind closed doors, but swearing in front of the
kids hasn’t been an option. Caroline in particular is moody and sensitive
whenever I veer into territory that could be construed as crass or sarcastic (or, gulp, disrespectful).
I’m sure she is distressed by my text. But why is she on her father’s phone in
the first place?!
Get off your father’s phone.
:(
I just want you to get some sleep so you are
not crabby tomorrow. You were kind of crabby
tonight before trick-or-treating and that
was upsetting. I want you to have a great day!
No response. I turn off
our outside lights, blow out the jack-o-lantern, and rightly consider tossing the
remaining candy in the dumpster. But before I can carry out my plan, the troops
return, smelling like autumn leaves and caramel. They are rosy and chatty and
high on artificial colors and flavors – except for Caroline, who avoids making
eye contact with me and makes a beeline for her bedroom.
After I peel Jane and Owen
out of their costumes (fortune teller and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, respectively),
I find Caroline (peacock) in bed, blankets up to her eyeballs. Our conversation
goes like this:
Me: (trying to
act innocent) Caroline, why are you crying?
Caroline: (sort of glaring and crying at the same
time) You called us assholes!
Me: (taking deep breath because I know I’m going to be here
for awhile) I didn’t mean to call you assholes. It was an
accident! It was a mistake!
Caroline: (not convinced, for which I don’t
blame her) That was really mean. It hurt my feelings.
Me: (trying
to remain contrite, but how badly I want to put on my pajamas and go to bed…) I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.
It wasn’t very nice or respectful of me.
Caroline: (wiping
away the last of her tears) Thanks for apologizing, Mom.
Me: (kindly but firmly) But Caroline, in
the future can you please stay off your father’s phone…?I’m certain that when Caroline drifts off to sleep she’s feeling loved and un-assholelike. I, on the other hand, feel terrible, even though my text was not meant for her eyes. What kind of mom calls her children assholes? I go right to my friends for validation.
My dear friend Katie tells
me not to worry. She says it’s not that bad. “I told my oldest son, when he was
just three years old, that he was on 'Santa’s shit list.'”
I’m starting to feel better.
Next, I talk to Tonya, who is
always reassuring in a crisis. She asks me, “Does ‘mofo’ count?”
“Yes, I suppose ‘mofo’
counts,” I reply.
“Well, then. When he was a
newborn, I called my son a mofo.”
Fair enough. Thanks,
Tonya.
But it’s Kylie who brings
me the greatest sense of relief, because at least I’m calling my kids assholes and not the other way around. Kylie
says, “We were at my mother-in-law’s house with about ten of Howard’s
family members for Bennett’s eighth birthday. After Bennett blew out his
candles, there was one left, and someone said, ‘Oh, he has at least one
girlfriend!’ I was standing next to Howard’s aunt, and I said that I didn’t
think Bennett had any girlfriends but that my five-year-old Tate was quite the
ladies’ man. To which Tate said, in front of everyone, ‘Mom, you little bitch!’
The room went silent.”
“Oh, Kylie,” I cringe. “That
is awful.”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m sure
it will be a story we hear again. And again.”
